XIX: Passifloras

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.
The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,
Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking off premises
Of tangles meant to last a day, and yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too closely.
Knowing your tactful agreement, and who among the variant musicians it pleases
All I ask is consciousness. Embargoed by ease, rebellion perhaps, despite the darkening


In the floorboards, look to wine and worlds for inspiration, attitudes to our science darkening,
Where human bodies grow in the same way, as rope molding frames a converted farmhouse.
An intimation of the troubles ahead, and with the moth wings composed, once again it pleases
Our notions of them, all clearly perishing; heavy hammers penetrating ever deeper to its fluid form,
Your bright shadow once again grasping at the corner of another memory, and watching closely
For someone catching, if not, then unobtrusive, upright, and honest. Not comely, the premises


Observed, your sad morning face caught between the shafts. That, imagining missed premises
Pressed together like maypops. Hollow, with their dimpled seeds. What with a scale darkening
Without giving ground, your hand slips in the binding. Well aware of being abandoned, closely
Pitching at the spike. All inside your head is demolished; a bet in exchange for your life, that farmhouse
Where some treasured species of mattock or rake is carried off, a garage transformed
Into facsimiles of all the closets in the house. I longed to be back gardening, just as it pleases


To regrow your neck. Devourers--and not just our fruit--undergo a divisioning of circles so well-pleased
At preserving our saints. Without a doubt, each has that persistent botanic splice. Except our premises
Baked in pots; with the afternoon rainstorm arriving late. Exchanges of a few words and nods formed
A few grains worth retrieving from the heap. But it starts you off again, your machinery darkening
In the yard, perhaps the rest follows in its turn. Everyone but strays have left the farmhouse
To do a trade. We strain to hear the sex noises they would make. Coming and going, closely


Chiding ashes of last autumn's leaves. It comes like all the tonic bottles issuing from here, closely
Grasping for subtler taxonomic clues. With the fire damped; flux, the soap and water cleared, you are pleased,
Fleeing to the only soft bed in a flush of joy. The Sun shines for them, slipping on the scree. A farmhouse
From a fortunate marriage, although it does not promise a reciprocal gaze. There is no telling which premise
We are experiencing, prompting us to bare our trim bodies. Rescued from decomposition in dreams, the darkening
Loft in the early morning erases reprisals. About the marks, tell of them what you like. They are formed


To say something, aren't they? Now I see how mistaken I was, on whose shambling mount I lead, forming
A camp around the windings of a stream. Having suffered reverses, I bring the light close to my face, closely--
That I have not returned with apologies, how it tears at the skin, retreats. An unseen dog greeted me, darkening
Far into the portrait. Yet the bloodletting never stretches far enough, hammering the warped boards down, pleased,
How it was like for me--stumbling on my attacker's front foot, I knitted them into tender movements, and with premises
The thing waggled along. Somnolence, its ultimate product. You think I'm willful, reclaiming lumber from the
farmhouse.

Despite the darkening of decades, destruction of conditions making them valuable, the room is transformed.
Deer dart on the edge of the farmhouse. After a fire destroyed much of the classical lines,  it gathered closely so that historic forests would return. Shall I thrash out a plan for the other half, the musicians it pleases, shall that be the attitude of these premises?