It is all for lack of wheels, when the Solar Wheel is Taranis, Jupiter or Roma, swarthy, suspicious beneath their cloaks clutching scandalous rondure. Daring to touch.
Their wheels catch the Adamic hay, standing and fallen Williams calls it, anything but description, standing in the skin of the soul, sun-huddled, unpained from what one is.
Standing and fallen, language in its trenchant drift to thee, it is the wheel-people who savvy, patteran the very leaves, who dare to tell us what everybody knows.
Black as clouds, blown where be may what be, I’ve heard the movements in their banter, as if the speaker had jumped from the tower and the angels on the pavement ran from a directionless menace (excuse me for existing, they politely say).
I’ve heard the voluptuous map of motives deploy its lambent delegates in the simpleton’s simplest sentence, and I’ve seen him forgiven, so long as he kept talking.
No comments:
Post a Comment