Time
lies in wait. Our river's valley is a custom and a comfort; afterwards,
the balconies and doorways of a principal avenue, a sudden snake,
appear among the stage-stuff.
The kingdom clamours for pitch. The northern american states call for pitch. They will have it. A sticky harvest, first in pools between roots, then tubs in carts, then traincars. Our ladder is of one carved stem, rungs as a row of bracts.
I become occupied by the fashions of ferns. Some knit thick lobes, persist in ice; an old commerce of flesh. Others evolve their lace til frost: a teased weave.
Devices complicate the walls of the dining room. This interior is a fruiting tree; this palace is a garden. Foliage intervenes, nourishes; the branches droop. Apples. Our eyes covet them first.
The kingdom clamours for pitch. The northern american states call for pitch. They will have it. A sticky harvest, first in pools between roots, then tubs in carts, then traincars. Our ladder is of one carved stem, rungs as a row of bracts.
I become occupied by the fashions of ferns. Some knit thick lobes, persist in ice; an old commerce of flesh. Others evolve their lace til frost: a teased weave.
Devices complicate the walls of the dining room. This interior is a fruiting tree; this palace is a garden. Foliage intervenes, nourishes; the branches droop. Apples. Our eyes covet them first.
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