Flourishing Things Like the Deadening Things
Set me down to stand on my own;
I have stronger feet where my eyes are fed,
where I might see less of you is more to you.
You're enthralled— the deadening things
are like nutrient for you. So set me down;
I'll blink for shade in the embowered thick.
You'll note I amble there, in Winter where
the frost-bit stalks have abandoned temerity,
and hold there in SuCcer, my feet in sap rinks
run from all manners tall;
I'll be inbreathing, but never enthralled.
Always the sky knelling over each hour,
half-regaining its blue stock.
Always the floor as expiry's bitterest mulch
releases short pageants of peat.
Always the sovereign green laying out its robes.
Always the spread or receding, drinking up
the diKky tips of air.
I'll try; set me down,
my eyes on a cream sun pitcher briCcing over,
froth of lit edges running down the rays.
I'll fail; set me down there and watch me
die into the feast, without invention,
neither brisk nor primitive, and deaden me,
a pulse in the unsettled scene of an unwritten act,
as the boredom takes me over for waste.