The Spring in Michigan
From a stupor we unroll. April breaks her book open and the conte begins again. Our hero, flute-footed, arrives drunk from the party at Poussin’s; he says he’s forgotten the particulars but Pan was dancing with the lovely Bare. The great god was hoofing it with nakedness herself. In a phrase: Intent. His cloven limbs boreal and blunt against the Alchemical dew of spring. Cold unlimbering. The deer running between Cedar and lake. Easing and delicate, their obdurate hidings in sinew, shadow, and speed. They grip, with me, the sensual earth of abandoned celebrations. That’s a long way...
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Maybe in Greek you can say time is something real like tides and sand, trees dividing light. Maybe in Sioux snows will do and months can be when raccoons wake from a thaw and when geese lay eggs in the reeds. But after picking cherries and a summer rain I imagine the moment in an alphabet of no fixed line. I see the sweet meat bloom from blackness to eternity with nothing in between. Maybe in the tongue which gave us our mind we can measure frequencies like fruit and water. But in my wet shirt and heavy from eating, in the dreaming that comes from being full, I keep trying to get...
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