Federico Garcia Lorca
     [Poem of the Deep Song]
 

A river like that, notes on the shore banks.  A radio channel searching for ____, tuning the ripples, "and into the river we'd dive."  Measuring the tame banks, dropping out of the eddies, the radio river, bearing acoustic. 

Toni Marconi, singing the race of signals, leading the breaking waves at the shore of the antenna on the wire, made up in the way to the ripples between.  Found in the stream of notes at the edge of the water, coming through the hay, bleating the length of lambs.  This twilight shore. 

The willows found in the music the banks of the harmony time tremble five strings through a golden haze of blades.

Sometimes rosesudden these the anthers, the petals of the some few collected divisions in the silk of a whorl.  The whorl, there the pollen trigger, enter the change, symbiotic link to the request for centre and sequester the frame of a gladdened spice.  These anther tining sources colour the emblem petals, rosehips the bougainvillea streaming. 

What a pollen wind in the photo changes of this rubour chiding.  A young diurnal when cereus blooms at night.  Sometimes Guatemala, but deliver up the pollen powder suspension, navigate the small backwater, and curl.  These running flames. 

The petal tones and the open waves broken. Some saffron efflourescence, rubour fields of rhyming colour, and the chiaroscuro settles in on the limbs.  Many flamed whorls and many candescent soft settled powders; the greater radiance the sun sleeping.  Fire light.  A river made up in these places. 

Over these broken shells so well, come some there the waterberries / sown the sea-side go, merry / the winter mid bleak come to the ferry edge of ocean forest / winding the salt edge slowed to the end of the shells / broken so well / seeming the sea varnish, the rose swollen meeting the / ripples between / my heart is made up

The poppies. How sometimes a fire moving in heat rains sweetly.  A blue rain in the sea songs string to the ends of the world and wrap the world in their waves.  And the weather comes up to meet me. 

Some trawler's tangled net.  Of those things that are taken up in one's sleep and forgotten in the middle, but taken up all the same.  Here is greeting from that latent web of circumstance which has made this distance in between. 

I have been taken up into the tides of this place, to the edges of some starshine.  And all of this is some warble in the tropics, some broken chain of ice in Arctic waters, or a furthered typhoon/hurricane ending in a god's rain upon a chine between the valleys of radio.  For here there are clouds in a sunken sky, the result of a far off event. 

The tides, I mean.  Should the recent new moon have left you with a sense of earthlier happiness, "the rose distilled," it should come as no surprise then, that those pursuant of ocean traverses of kinds must know some quiet little satisfaction of the soul and be, in addition to having gained pleasant sea passage experiences, of a lighter heart than river seekers, know cogent messages in the wind, and perforce have delivered unto themselves a meet sense of servility toward heavenly bodies.  And this is all too well, for there is no more divine quantity than that which may be
quantified of celestial things, and insomuchas they may be represented in tides foreveryone to swim in. 

Those ripple effects in the atmosphere, at the poles.  These Harmonies. 

Warble singsong in the anthers, which are the fugues of the passing of the seasons made in the horsehair bows upon all the violins taking in their passing.  Their beginnings and their endings. 

Yet there are the singings* which will run headlong upward of a long-stretch-of-time without reflection and feather the earth with those cogent wind additions which I mentioned.  Running against the limits of their trembling, and I, we all, forgive Galileo when in these diaphanistic songs are the moon and the moon's phases brought out to compare.  Arrive in the lights which one may only find infrequently.  Try to hold them, and their hues will quaver, but hold these strings of notes. 

*which are the transcendent resonances of the things which offer themselves in the sky, the collecting of the remainders of images impressed on the retina, held up to compare with the rich
memory of their echoes in this patient light.  Taken into their arrangements, one is coloured by their rhythms and may turn in them, ignorant of external sound.  Not like a fugue at all.

Saffron's tongue eddies in the small volute of a collected rain emptying its gravity to the sea's enduring salt.  Eddies of the vermilion song, circle, turn invisible whorls in the wind, are carried up and lost in great fathoms of air.

For Sun's portion is toil all his days / He looks to myth. / look: up everybone every sky every day every you / He goes working His / way up blue earlobes from ocean goes / Thrown by / rosesudden someone's / already tomorrow goes riding His bed of daysided gold goes / sleep countries from west to east until sudden rose-stopped someone's / already earliness opens the back of the clock / He steps in 

      Ann Carson [Plainwater]

Where horizon is, where ocean meets the edge of land. 

Torched open the window and let the light, let its becoming shimmering.  The frame of the breath and the light.  Lit by the lumens, by the candescence, by candles caught up in the round of marble and its reflection in the yellowed varnish of the long table.  Here at the opposite end, the apparition, enters from the right, showing to the table's edge and moves to lift the box at centre table.  Opening its box-self as it is so lifted, does so bring the box, now opened, moves it toward, inverting the everything of the inside of the box. 

The leather of all the weight of leather, the heats of all the mixing, moves into the breath of the up-ending of the cube of the box and is with its contents ended here across the top of the table.  There, transparent filigree of the fine fibres do evanesce and spread their turmeric leather of colour fur into the heath of the room, engendered with the firing of the lumens and the candescence and the withered leather of vanished reflections. The turmeric road of the valleys of the table surface wield/yield up the dunes across the strings of light, vibrating/vanishing.  And the edges of the table end in the valleys and the ends of the vanishing reflections come to the divisions in the mountains which rise now in unison to the brow of the figure standing now to the edge of the long valleys. 

Diminished as M. is consumed in the box valleys of the opening-making; for gathered there the seeds of their creation at the time of the lifting.  The lifting/mixing and the measuring of the weight of the box, and the sudden meretricious execution: these tithes the source of all M.'s new beginning, new diminishing.  This state of grace, a fair expression of the deliverance from knowledge and bliss.  Here is the pantheic-utopic from which must only radiate, must only permit the energies of the lumens, the edges of the valleys.

Made close to the sunning apparition, the vehicle of most anytime is true, running over the dance inside the engine, moving M. over the smooth heath of the middle road.  The middle of it smoothed in a sweet metal sting.  Even the long grasses, over their churnings.  The left at the juniper, berries on the road, over on the short way sweet in the heath of the middleknocking stones tinking the engine.  The round of marble rolling... 

When I drive all, some of me, looks away blue to the deep of the ocean is all the way there blue, shining islands, some of me on the engine taking the stamens to their sunning in the lumen valleys. 

The vibration of some five strings, the heath and the twisting flames of this rubine field, they do estrange the ends of the earth before the sky.  "Twilight trembles at the river," light opens the ending resolved in the horizon, emptied from the dunes, spilled from the conspiring of M. standing now at the mountain view. 

Reigns in these fires the fade over the broken table.  The room of the heath is reflected/made up in the sky varnish, and the opened ocean moves its milk on the fine of beaches.  Shuffling the reflected valleys in their shine, perfect seeds cast on the fineness of this air, breath and light mix in the tops of trees.  The apparition is loosed of the box. 

M. at the wheel.