/

In postponing the future a gesture pointed at the sun. Is this a branch, you said or some

ectype of mystery? Nothing of the sort I said, only the morning gale and the hurry on

startled by a sudden thought.


Is this intelligence you asked, lapping the shore as solid transparencies? No, it is only

an error of comedic misfortune.


Is that the only wish of a thought, you asked, to be the first of its cast? I know only of

the bird among the spruce and of that I know little.


I know my origin has a different hue, my gender a reflex among the pine. I cannot hear

the fear above this din you cried. Softly I spoke and you ran.


Welcome genius here is your containment of isolation and despair suffering from the

handicap of illegitimacy.


I am writing poetry you want. Am I writing poetry you want? This is the difference we

made you by, the social condition we set you by. It was a novel & deeply affecting trap.

This is a fact, it is not chance but causation. WTF. It cannot be denied.


What you require does not rediscover the unity of nature. It wasn’t lost! This is your own

game played with your own rules. “Ihr sollt wieder Freunde von den nächsten Dingen

werden.”


There is a recurrent difficultly with address. We are living to soon. Or like a blade of grass,

erased from the dialectical by the erection at the gallows. Closing your eyes, a page,

dissolved to what you think of silence, retaining spruce & a solo pine tracing the sacred

along strips of a further complicated not solely green.


Nothing of what you say says much, does it!? I told you, be careful, fears will persist and

my heart has left its dwelling place.