mqsheu

In a single floral stroke,
Is the moon to grow
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Dismal, endless plain—
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Out of the road into a way across
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Wheezing ravens, when
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
At the white place of the road's vanishing