VIII. Être en plein essor

VIII. Être en plein essor

Explicit water or born solvent of the seventh series Ford Falcon
Conveyed by the desert creating imminent swales of sidewalk—
By a butchering mouth, from a goat refusing to render its neck to a cleaver
On that spent inheritance, the butcherbird is collared—The wheeling
Bird; intangibly créanced, momentarily blinded, from a just-tossed Pernod bottle—
Everywhere, divots of ciel bleu; the battered bath, its deposits of hard water, lacquered

Phthalo green, of the Winsor & Newton cabinet-locked articles of Theft: A Love Story (2006), where the lacquer’s
Weft dissolves—From laksh, the one hundred thousand polymerized red beads trailing the loss of their falcon
Tapered wings, of a scale insect—As a crucifixion from a Bauhaus furniture frame, Bacon shared a bottle
With Brett Whiteley, who gobbed, Coincidence (1973); at the bequest of Patrick White (1983)—Nightwalkers,
Two—Only coming, To Monsieur et Madame Tourenbois, which marks the edge of the young wife’s blouse, a slice of light cleaving
His gaze to her; longer lasting than his child—Whiteley’s sun-infused walls, the blue Self-portrait in the studio (1976), where he turns the wheel’s

Crank handle, after a stopover on the invisible tabletop, for his gear—Overlooking the subject arching there, on her independently invented wheel,
Engorged—M., knowing so much more before I gather, Tour en bois, quatre alludes to Chicago’s Chase Tower, and preserving lacquer
Upwards to a million, of Chagall’s mosaics of the Four Seasons (1977)—So many birth sorties, of our ultramarine dream-cleaving—
Leaving the Shedd Aquarium excursion’s oarfish beaching among its astonished kayakers (2014)—Chance, the gyrfalcon,
Blue bleeds into every corner of Chagall’s America Windows (1977)—After Cixous (1997), Celan’s bottle
On the ocean (1958), with the linseed oil and chalk dispersed, flashed glass is instilled with eyebright—Where mall walkers

In the Art Institute of Chicago, a mist of clocks, might recognize Ferris Bueller (1986)—A few among us, with a sleepwalker’s
Purpose; know Major Daley’s commission from the Window over the Garden (1917) of the artist’s wife and daughter before the wheel
Of time, the devourer—Chagall spent his second half-life recreating that interior; the curative 
Of The Drunkard (1911) running with a letter opener, turning to the bottle—
His father, who rolled salted fish barrels—Native, naïve, so many command the flying fish and love-stained bouquet the qualified mind lacquers
Over—In our life there is a single color, between the canvas stretcher and its x-ray analysis of the cleavage
Of the minerals, and purpose of the Butcher’s leaping tears, of a falcon’s

Arrowhead inscription—His son’s roundwalk of a fort with rain-moldered jacaranda rotting like heartache across the slate-grey roof and copies of Falcon—

Samuel Wilson flew pigeons off such a roof in Harlem—As Rousseau (1778) failed in the completion of his tenth walk

From a hemorrhage; with all the expired Polaroid film unfilled; exposing dark blue, and uncleaved
By our molds—Blue Czech glass continued under the Communists, and the overpaintings of the Prague mural of John Lennon—After tank road wheels

Made their off-road connections (1968); after his assassination (1980), when the Butcher was between bottles—
The canvas too shifted in the battle with the resistant “O” of G-D—Mary Shelley reawakened the golem by a caption in her lacquered

Desk, she longed later to reanimate the part spared from a beach fire (1822)—She sees him, in the lively blue eyes of William Frankenstein lost to the lacquered
Cadaver skin of the creation (1818)—Away from our horizontal position; or under ether, as Mary, most of the time—As the fauconne
Of lightning discharged polarities, of death written on the forehead, of our bodies founded to contain a learned passage in his volume, after Borges (1953)—A phosphorescent blue bottle
In Cixous's absence of the sun, the film of a sleepwalker—
In the darkness of mounting the stairs that lead up to realities of oversight; or of being tabled, with formations cleaving
Humility, with designated approval, and if the medium was Ambertol it would set like bakelite—Kneeling at the wheel’s

Hub, hypnotized by revolutions—The priceless lessons of Le Golem Électrique, a copy; for us, a touchstone of varying sheer or frosted lacquer—Imparted by planes generating both lift and scalding streams, and wheeling
Evasions from your falcon eyesight—We cleave the stillness of the calls of Chagall’s chickens
By what palette, what bottle, for which compasses of cobalt blue, we should internalize for these farsighted solitary walkers.