A number of linked objects

remote acquisition of accurate matter

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The sea, noticing the moon, rolled in and out,

and not to be ceased, formed herself in blue,

and other ways in green, and so deterred the eyes,

the eyes went inland, to observe the trees there,

and the forest as well, not to be seen by them,

moved up and down there, and only then the sun,

which star had been blond, took red and gave green,

so the forest went on so, garish to the bright eyes,

which things took leave, and searched the city,

but the city smelled, it was not pretty,

and eyes see not smell, the eyes looked in,

when the city woke, when it slept too,

all eyes drawn there, fixed the place then,

and the sea and wood, not wishing halt,

continue there, for they are tireless,

the sea for the moon, forest for sun,

going in and out, going up down,

causing a love-sound, that sound moves out,

through the Earth vast, it gets into cities there,

and the eyes see it, volcanoes of love go,

the eyes see the love go, the city takes credit,

and yet the old city, cannot become cause,

only through thought strength, nobody can steal,

and yet only through thought, the sea still rolls on,

out of love--for the pale moon.

The sea, the wood, and other magical places,

are each in a moving love affair with something,

and the city is in an affair with itself,

and the eyes that shine on what's transient,

they exist only to give meaning to the past.

But the forest will always love the sun,

so it will always be alive,

and the moor will always love the rocks,

and the twilight always the horizon,

and the heat will always love the cold,

and the sigh will always love the laugh,

the little people mischief,

the sea the moon, and blue.

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I'm too worn out to write any good

Almost to listen any good

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The Unwholesome City

The city doesn't rinse her rice.

The city doesn't pick her beans.

But, you'd be amazed how fast a city can learn.

A city is a fire. We all know by now, each day burns.

Each day, the city eats; it dances.

But they've somehow got this notion.

And I somehow haven't.

Like the stone in a bean pot,

Our innocence never melts.

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And now, the twilight slowly fades to grey,

When once acquired skills begin to fray,

Upon a rocky seashore Hera sits,

Pretending man is not convulsed by fits,

The dawning of the Renaissance has done,

Once necessary gestures are for fun,

Then, man woke up from slumber long and low,

Then, man acquired skills his mind to show,

But whence our language used for being coy,

And whence the notion of the girl and boy?

I know a lot about the littered sea,

But what I cannot know, from you, is me.

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While it's true that I live to love,

You'll get no love from me.

When Judith's education done,

She saw nor land nor sea.

In many apparitions vote,

Or press your faith in me.

Contumely was the water here,

Yet now it cannot be.

This verse is not the purple cow

That mocks credulity,

But, rather, stigma twice distilled,

But, rather, dewey seed.