rooting mixture

duty to feel, to renounce, gather bread crumbs& sup late morning wine; bemoan
the speed with which we digress telepathically to reinvent the globe. shoo, bedbugs.
find new entymologists. i swear disbelief at the ground holding me true. i'd like to see
through a human heart, if i could locate one.
   i look into finely lit waters and clutch the truth of murkiness, its pearl. descending to
mean what i say, horizons blend and echo a garden of faded stars. cube wheeled jokes
and clipped wings entwine the page of this sacrosanct temple, penitent and weak.
propriety is propped sideways, and duty sleeps a fat poet. value, ideal; the stomach
knows time a friend to progressively avoid.
     limbs stretch to orchards unworked by dull fingers that point Earth toward home.
woods fed of their own fire, learnings that preach to trees with root cramped toward
water. i am the number counted. if my spine would curve distinctly upright,i'd feel more
than just the next opposable thumb, and plant my soil deeply, cupped in the folds of
a woman.
     newly discovered nations test the brow of solitary moments, pointless as beauty's
run-on sentence, unfolding a roll of film from a constellation, an open sphere. (1992)