Sunday, March 27, 2005

4th Sunday

A baragnotic sky: from here should I have
followed its trammelled droppings,
mud unparalleled. But windings

are not clear. There is the Abbey which repels
or magnetises according to the direction
approached. This uncomplicated,

yet eschatological, near
vertical, a

merely pinioned, quasi-simple – led.
A hysteresis threaded flat
within all travels shies
us where-

ever we dare not yet think
we can. We end(ed) up where
we end, driven somehow, pushed by signs. I spy

Romney sheep, glutinous hyphens
expostulating upon half-dead baize.
Rooks splay a disjectorous cuneiform.

Plainsong was not that but a lazy circuitous
and hard. The typo read:
and is the music upon
which the prayer of Benedictine monks is based.
It includes some of the oldest melodies eve created.

The cherry is in two cycles at once.
Late autumn witherings, inebriated bats, cling:
intermittering dithering blossoms
as if no branch

As such, hedges too look confused, dirty

and irritable. A returning crow morses across hastily pastelled haar,
aching to scape from throat some heart. We flee

to the hearth, not from it. I may have said
many things from afar. But the straight
is always anspoggic.

Like you, I have shed my corrections.
Unheroic. Written.

Most paths are.

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