Weed in a flooded stream I am,
Swirling in wayward spirals.
My hands have no point of view – now submerged, now grasping, now seeking, now yarning,
Now clinging. Desperately,
Each face makes a costume, each costume
Blinks at me with distilled flower essence, creates
A pleasant space in separate odorous spheres hidden from view. Things are sudden
To those without sight. A militia invading, sensation
Lacks a personal point of view. Each face undresses and disappears in a field
Of sunflowers when the sun sets, and soon the map becomes the field and lacks
The discretion of astral-temporal orientation. Sort of like a baby
Feeling, discretely, each singular pleasure, each pinprick of pain, each pungent taste, whisper, and purr.
We wonder who is included?
The contours of timeless space, shriveling symphonic tone,
Wafts of sulky grey and hung down sun –
Sweet milk, the plumy bristles of early autumn, the cool whirr of the Big Sandy,
And these speechless hands.