WEBVTT

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First thing is a song.

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Is the mountain death despair
unlived black flowered,

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bare of goddesses of blue
waterfalls, of mystic tears?

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Is it a stone cloud
innocent of motion?

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Listen, he sings,
the mountaineer.

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The lamb kneels and
the livid wildcat.

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The lost bird
waits like we wait,

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our naked rocks is the
echo across seven times

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seven hills ascends,
descends, in eternal fountain.

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Oh living lives and dying
die yet die not on despair.

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Let's fly your song,
your myth so strange.

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What triumph is so
simple as a song?

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What gifts so pure as
singing mountaineers

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Catch, fortune.

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Catch the moonlit hawk.

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Does he sleep in an old bronze
tree or rapid his breathing

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wildness?

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Does he invoke the
spacious night?

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Catch him.

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Here is the magic net.

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A thing to swing and shout
about, a year, a year, a year,

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take it.

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It is laying here for centuries.

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Out of the dark medieval
lair, the Gothic voice

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admonishes, cast
out your devils.

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Oh, beware.

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It is a grievous sin.

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Despair, despair.

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Bedfellow of ring wronging
nights, I lie with you.

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Your aged fingers touch
my eyes like snow.

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I cannot ride.

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I cannot go.

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I stare into your dark
as if gulped by a stone.

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Your vast narcissists pool
reflects the lag of spring,

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where lost cells drown and
broken wings of Grecian birds

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drift to unspoken shores.

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There are no angels anymore.

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The light is wide, too plain for
limping quail, the fox in pain.

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The ashes and the
child's bright hair.

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The card queen drops
holding her iris,

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the skull void of surprise.

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Do I joy that I have eyes?

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Old sin despair, to
practice lover clasping me ,

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a dream like a long legged
crane may fly from lake to lake.

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But when I try to take you
with me love, I cannot fly.

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Am I the dreamer or the dream?

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If not the dreamer I,
but dream, I shall not

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stay in your cruel mind.

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A wall is without
meaning to a specter.

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If I can move from
your embrace, if I

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can dare a speculative
new grass shore,

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then this dream can live.

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