A BEGINNING OF A NEW HINT
flies like an arrow…
for what you have seen
vast masterpiece of time-sown
sorrow is a vast masterpiece
of time-sown joy also:
in dark, everything's
serious is ovum, ovum's
there is no ordinary
to bend a Caravaggio
and what you thought
was Xmas was never a same into-birth
as all others could see—desire—spreads—across—a
city—with little flavored coffee spoons made of bricolage—and
desire—eats—herself—for dinner—because she
is—hungry for something less sustaining—than a piece of
bread or soup for dinner with friends—and desire—is not
a verb—that moves where—many others can go with her—and
you—my friend—were once desire and now are new—because
you're not reborn—just not blind—
then you eat all the soup.
There is plenty of ordinary
be had outside of sky.
You ate what you could,
a city is green, a city is made salt
because made of desire,
because made of totems and
buried beneath a layer
white lace and grease.
new wants is new's guise as guise, a reversal of obvious platitudes
into something less mundane and frivolous. What new sees is how to
plant an edge of day at a birth into night, which is not a birth.
Edge = frivolity of ficus/focus, extended to built edge into night's
friend. Goodnight, again. Goodnight, again. Goodnight, Angelou, angel
of morning. You fell into something awkwardly uneven, yet even is
where your platitude rested once. And now, you sleep.