Four Outriggers

If the flowers of.
On the tables of.
That they were oak leaves.
It was everything.
On the bed, to be,
With one hand
Rising up
On the bend,
A freshness of
No ego of reality.

A blue of the rug
Or a bluejay.
Big in itself,
The way they looked
To a philosophic ox.

A great disorder
Proves that thoughts
Of clouds on sand
Are pleasant as
An Englishman
who never lived.

And if it all went on,
Resolved the world?
An upper, particular table
Of Connecticut:
A small relation
As pleasant
A tale as
A whorl as
Inhumanly choked
Human things,
Summer too soon
To hold or sweep.


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