the earth is new

the sea and you
clutch one another

there is a boat smiling down the stream
of your consciousness
its bottom wet
the soil of it weeping
forming roots
for the round sweetness
underneath the sun

the earth is pale
in comparison
with the stretched wrangling vision
between the gnarls you ent 

softhought

in the afternoon of your life
- you draw a sunset out of symbols
- you hang up your landry in front of it
- you sleep in a hammock in your eyelids
but there is a string you see
you wish you could grab so that you could uncork
the world

to unleash all that rushing happen.

for you, it would seem
- a powdered sound over your lashes
- silly rain tappings on the awnings over your forehead
- a breeze through your air

mm..

on desks

the pages
couched in between that
lion figurehead walking around the room
and the burgeonings sitting down,
thrust roundabout in their seats
paying with attention
for their retention of what

it's true
some books are thinner
and pockets less strongly clutching,
but hey;
the pages have dates
or ink in some hieroglyphic form
and they're looking for 
the right mental detector
to find what they buried there
ago,