repeating in Gregorian spasms of dyed wing
the only in head felt tidal tom thing without.
As all blind thoughts mole that dirt-dreaming jumble,
feels the father rock of the world, torn untimely from its sun,
through sole unhealed tunnel, running synapses of sea and dendrite delta
down this made man mud. Where bums the blue Pacific
mumble ever the unborn, unconceived floats of dream
that flow artesian the shafts of ivory, oxidized to petals
that flame the nervous gray stalactites’ roof.
Then down
that ever evanescent way and back flare films of rockslid dust
to the volcano that thumps heartbeat only for the ear,
the mountain that backbones solely to the eye,
and the ocean that mothers but to the last sucking mouth,
as the name that is my own calls out itself
to be, sonning after ear its storming father fanned,—
“Lie down and come,” is nailed onto me. “Spread out thy arms
like syllables, and reascend the land.”
This first printing of “When Pussywillows Last in the Catyard Bloomed” is limited to an edition of 1000 copies of which 200 are cloth-bound, signed by the author and numbered 1-200.
The remaining 800 copies are numbered 201-1000.
This is copy 465
When Pussywillows Last in the Catyard Bloomed (rtf) Page 3
