The Book of Fragments

fragments

Noticing to
confess the days,
rapids were I,
before a glance
forwards and wearisome,

silenced by
language,

here to leave the music
wept across the body,
the wall before it and all
I cannot tell you
must reverberate
through sense,
on eyes window,
imagining and vanishes
with voices for a circle,

windows of grass
in a whispering
at little green
as if
it would
to brightness reach,
and the actual
perceiving
is resolved
to the centre,

here
any moment
remember
and
perish.

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