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  1. Fundamentally...

    Fundamentally we do not exist.
    Compare Nature in our being:
    the light which spirals in
    to shape our hands shapes
    the motion of Her grace,
    and spills dawn, and noon, and evening light
    into our bodies shaping, Her radiance,
    and whirls our legs in stars, in bright stars, Her elegance;
    and our looks, like blocks projecting:
    black black black black black
  2. Even the eyes...

    Even the eyes transcend a momentary cause…
    a haze, as if the vast boundlessness
    of fields were her.

    (It would seem so)

    The way the bedclothes slid away
    and left her body bare,
    a peach-touched texture,
    nonspecific, gaining softer
    against the soft lit air,

    or how the greenery and sky
    uplifts her hair, caressing softly
    there and there.

    She, like an Atmosphere of Land in part,
  3. Where from...

    Where from did all our distortions form
    but from sediment of light that heavens could not quantify
    a place with places qualified be controlled.

    So dripping down, this light, the scene thats showing
    from it's washed out leaf fringes,
    to the concrete columns edged and etched, then smeared that way-
    and loss with depth - we try and we retrace our way up.
  4. History plays

    (I wrote this while in a joking manner.)

    History plays the minor role
    in poems, as do the page
    and words on the page are
    not the same.

    If than, then I sit and pick
    my nose to know that words
    did not matter so; but let
    my thoughts run wild with
    the naked man that doesn't
    need clothes for support.