I'll read you the first "Exercise on Unfinished Sublimity."
Plump as a bumble is certain.
He's tedious with smiles in his tidy apartment
for no fog on his furniture has been allowed.
Each chair will withstand a good shake of the head
and his doubts are padlocked into an old sea chest.
Plump as a peanut is certain.
He's gold while his neighbors are dull blue or green
and all of his aims fit the right frame.
But today, behind Main Street, the juggler
had nine flying balls and the one
tossed the highest was certain.
Sweet cloister for the grieving child dropping penny briefs
at play with fairies, ferns, ferns in the ravine
grimace empathize with soulless.
Crisp twigs impresario frogs practice duets and stone bubble
screens.
Fern green wraiths of music rave and ridiculous dream scales.
Grace is green and unbewildered.
I think I think, think I want to think until I see
the sweet impassable, the ferns.
I have the key in my pocket.
I know it will unlock my chain, but I do not use it.
I say the key might break, although, I know it will not.
The metal chain chafing my skin sends a spray of scarlet stars
into the murky night enfolding me.
They are my stars and the hurt reminds me I am alive.
Who wants to be free.