313.
She was in him all the time
Rosa peregrina pressed between the
pages
so much talk the morning mower
break into an art beyond commodity
you pilgrim rose that took his hand
led him to color alone and left him
there
while she herself stepped up inside
him
castle of palaver beauty counts
on one finger the ruby of the setting
sun
we live again because we mistake
this art too beyond the financiers
life belongs really only to the
poor.
314.
Poverty is permanent is to live in a
physical world
endlessly interdependent dependent on
each puff of breath
each stone you stand on your will
contingent on the molecular
even if you think you’re not just
mirror neurons
just the habit of acquiring speech
because it doesn’t lead anywhere
it perdures or seems to as long as
you do
the world has never abandoned anyone
up to you to leave the world
naked towards the riches of the
unconceived
I love you she said despite all this
I tell
oiled wrestlers grappling with the
moment seems.
