DishonestBetween what lines must I read to find the meaning that you seed?And what abstractions must I know to accept the words you sew?How pitiful, that blank white page,Sitting by an open cage,And asking all without.But in your words I do engage,As far 's I can without dismay;Must I fear a lingering pout?Between what oceans have you run that you can tell me all is done?And where have you bestowed a kiss without the ink and without miss?For I do not see any wordsAround, about, these other lords;These sentences and rivers.And I define in other words,Not obscene, like all of yours;The lines that shake and quiver.Between what notions have you to hide an animal unseen from eye?And who is hiding there among the sweeping cursive you have wrung?For one should never stoop so lowAs to smite the words we know,Like children and their slang.I have no marks, no lines to sewThat cannot be seen unless in row,For I have already sang.
Un Rebord VertThe sun has a shadow and it is catching up with me.Granted, I am not travelling fast.Though in comparison to the rest of those in the shade, I am quick.Still, I have miles to sleep before I run. I only stop to laugh, which is often, at bodies in the waterAnd children run over by colours.The trees have a brilliance and it is arguing with me.Truly, I have right of way.Besides, I do have many more hues than they and I am not lazy.Still, the trees think they are best, for they have quarterly cycles that awe the masses and whoaThe greatest poets of this world.Life gives me language and it is serving well to me.Writing, I can poetry prove.Trees are simple, left behind. Flowers? Dusty, and I am clean.So I will not fall over roots and bugs and life so green, or the winter's solstice-teeth, because IKnow more than Summer does.
Avenge FieldIn the air; in the hair of the bare fine grassOf the moor, which proved more to me now than thou has,I am free.It is dank it is loving; it is cultured in cunning for it has taken my likes to its half-covered garden.I've shared them, bewared them, all thought and all sewSo any needle that has seen will know all that I know;I am free.The vines and the valley of moist apparitions have beckoned my living to its growing fortune.For a price; very nice, I can vice my wayThrough the truth of the terror that is noon. And all dayI am free.I am sheltered in hiding, not slowly declining. I am ripe and passionate; a growing fortune.I have the butter for better, and the letter for worseThat I intend to send along with the hearse and your curse,(You aren't free!)Of being not there in my pregnant affairs, and never wanting my eyes or my garden.I am run, this is fun, into time in the mystics.And I'm sure you're aware that your blindness has missed this;Being free.So I lay my tea out