The field pretends itself.
A revelation of dynamics a sort of prayer without
that turns, reveals
in turn the dynamics
of revelation. Sit and watch without the surround
that turns a tree of flame red house
rebuilding plunges through all limit. Limns us, lambs. The mark.
We are marked. To even lift a wing. I hear Dryden.
Simple round a ring against blight against agriculture against
everything I say the words look past me to where rings must pass with half-hour hush.
Silence of sending. A red house swims down to the root. The tree
that is a torus, created, and there is another tree within it without
surround, a made thing. White blue, Gaussian hollow. But mixed,
the things are mixed up. Any tree of moment is a hill half in shadow,
chih over chih, simply this is so quickly most complex
angels are mixed with the dreams the carry.
I pretend to be a manger and see what happens.
They told me the window is the house, that the cup contains the blood.
I take these things to find the rest, it is my quest! Redeem the dust
under the oven, sky in a puddle: all blood, all window
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