I will take my fits to be
blessings. I will
take my fits to be.
Blessings on the cold room
where I take my fits
to be fitted, tailor-stitched.
But starting from an image,
say, the fog rising
from its earthly bed
before dawn or the dark mounds –
fat worm volcanoes –
left in the plain and grassless dirt,
I can begin to look down
and drag deep my brain,
just the way drag they
the untold river for bodies,
only the bodies
come up half-ghost, un-dead eyes,
and sulk on the muddy banks
of the upper mind.
Take this long passing –
take this passing pickup truck,
surpassing dust cloud
raised behind the truck in dry
protest of the long, dry fact
of passing. Or take
this some one clear thing,
whatever it is, and get:
the Oracle waits
in the dark woods that aren't there.
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