Is the moon to grow
As it sits there like an eventual
In white, in paint too representative
Against this sky no longer of our world.
>From which, thanks to symmetry,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
And beyond, the same sound of bees
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Yes. The obvious
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Seized from creation by nonentity,
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Writhing their stunted limbs,
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
As it sits there like an eventual
In white, in paint too representative
Against this sky no longer of our world.
>From which, thanks to symmetry,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
And beyond, the same sound of bees
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Yes. The obvious
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Seized from creation by nonentity,
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Writhing their stunted limbs,
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps