ReRites ( to redeem the rainstorm.) [July 2017]

The Lamb Dies itself by being itself being itself being it it quits in the coldest grass rocks tremble unrealized I come at the giving — I wait to come, settling holding Warrior Whatever turned into the yolk of romance At the library of you blurred in the drafts. There is no resistance. The fish retreat in Narragansett pebble-stones, A smear of octopus. Dales of medicine Written in the Rivulet. The Bare-breasted summer, so carefully rude, drowns inscrutable passion ~ + ~ To see war build beneath the rites and everything reminded Of some life ~ + ~ The language of tequila makes spoons drip fire, While death frosts sunlight at the edge of dark And postmodernists mourn Home. Thus Blissed-Out hands unfold silk to feel their inheritance. ~ + ~ For what is the air! The sludgy bark, swinging over the $100 piece? Brim diseased energumen gully Tones and strange compass --cool humorous Mead Mother of eternal half-true forms. We understood the fire, - and what did it really say? No action ever holds a thing as does wood: as Silences rising choking. My heart impossible to spell without the end. That settling of the light that shows us sold. ~ + ~ Somebody wants to redeem the rainstorm.