Dear P. XXVI
A bench sits, stares out to sea. It says, sit
and feel this here. Another looks at the swamp,
onto the logarithmic sways of thistle. An
oil painting here, a watercolor there, where
the sky moors the sea, where the crane
arches the orchid. We have feeling, but we
are hovelled, told to pass as nice. Let us
pass the bench and its lathed feelings. Let
me bite the sky away from the seam of ocean.
Let me grieve you and play you, irk you and
deter you. Let me have the of of love, the
square root of you. Let us sit atop this cattle
with a hat and pass the yellow ball that could
be the sun or the eye of a camel in the summer.