Friday, 1 January 2021

#368 - the library in the garden



2.i.21

368

2.2

the library in the garden

 

a garden and a library is everything you need

                            – Cicero

 

more scribble than print

edge story dwelt

 

how many?

nothing en masse – in-trickery!

this the uncountable world

told to nonsense now

 

spill of flowers at the door

stain of sky unmade

come still

and wander

 

watch!

more of a jungle today

 

up, branches!

 

ark it is and bear about

covenant with self same

 

each on the way

 

who knows tomorrow?

 

thingly, yet abstract

it comes in all colours

 

sometimes the radio resigns

time to me again, ink witted

webbed to the corners

 

there are other languages too

here roses need heads off

kings and I to bliss

a listen up

 

trickle out of doors

for many fled here

 

just for their lives

 

let glory

trance of it

on foal legs first

stars as far

unsteady

 

creek and cicadas

compete for loud

clouds have away with the moon

none saw

 

curl edges up there

 

page some number in the hundreds

this rain is its own unending

 

there’s a certain shelf

in an aisle draws light

 

here’s ant along with moth and slater

bush roach and…

where else to shelter?

 

mouse meet poison; poison, mouse

 

some words just too high to read

 

here in the garden in the book

I grow myself

and over me

must make the quiet of it

 

a tangle of the ancestry

and anyone’s at home

vine’s rhyme along will be a fence

 

the many lost live this

hurrah!

with them commune

 

from certain secrets sealed

who’ll tell?

 

next year in Jerusalem they say

and all sorts

wing it

hear them out there?

 

whipbird and bower

all fat on the worm bubble rain

 

too much!

and so retreat!

 

still here

too many leaves of grass to look in

the yellow springs, blessed isles

 

we go to the worlds  

flow like glass with centuries

of who we were

how now

and are

 

nothing’s like anything else

but is

all in

 

just a body

among such

no other else required

 

wild nights sealed

and crossings out

hands up

who will remain?

 

the unit is the page

and time

chit, fold, tear

 

this crafting of the all-before

a very private thing

 

under every bushel, screed

 

bleak tablets

finer and finer print

some go into the book bright

as found back in the day



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