ON THE END OF THE WORLD

Born from some worthy End
here we've begun again

to make, to build, to mend,
to fix, to crush, to bend,

to break ...     

out of The Wood: Time's linked leaves,
Midday's tamed moves, Dusk's
impenetrable artifices, the riddles-entangled
end to th'tales, all: Repentance's
muffled chimes, Delay's lopped plots, Religion's
aluminum messages, Science's simultaneous

consciousness, softly, like leaves, the
songbird's dulcet & Maybe's
echo pours th'oboe budding the same
One World & Mind

above th'yellowest howl of Memory,
above Fury's great basalt sighs,
above Design's honey-dyed eternities

& Memory, th'villain of every tale, O
more immediate than unpremeditated in
Despair's testimonials, th'mystic interlude
of that all-explanation: Necessity
(for, bread is the breastplate of the greatest
conquerors'               

    scarred trails) laced with
the numbers of their endless sum: Breadth
melts to breeze seams    

      --spiritual addicts
running the horizons, red, just like a dream
out of thousands swells Blackness' (boundless

brazen) torn nightingales' tremendous
themselves: Summer that twitters about us like a copper-
head sweaty landscape in the close-hood-
-ed rain: a rousing wing (Maybe's wide wrinkle, un-
convinced)                         

... Embrace's all-toppling
sinks in th'pudding breast the red
lips red         
       Wildfires!

after the burning of The Flesh, Winter's,
the foliage's scars above th'pines smelling of
th'impervious Obvious
... August's not yet awake
torrents clipped off of sunrise (shingles)

Day's contradictory echo bounding about
the poplars' laps... shoulders bringing in Th'Final
kirn through Anything's subway (lazily taking
the trolleys star-aged: over Intensity's every

inch) while the cumulative clouds gather
themselves farewells over th'dales' too-
juggled memories                 

      ... The None's know-it-all,
Tomorrow's already too-old beginnings

--Th'Cold!

dew drops: the brow wriggling electric &
Sun tossing from his dim shoulders now

Feelings! blood-red, like flecks
of Sense
(in the Aftermath's murmurs) of
hawks like high fragments:

pours culminant ray

budding      

         pours

the oboe