in the morning ,
in the light out of the sea to the east ,
of two lips around on my (open) eye i know ,
the clearest visions
of her inside (outside) mind .
in the morning ,
by the sea at massachusetts , resting in skin to the left
of against her , under
after a storm’s
absent sky , knowing of the reconstitution
of air , which , by simple being ,
i had displaced .
everything is just
an indentation in the air ; and nothing
that is ,
is abstract (or bare) ,
or can be said to have never been there.
in eye visions ,
my skin under against warm her , after under
the wind and the rain of it ,
rudimentary i , a man ,
walk upright by the edge .
i drink the sea water from a wooden bowl
and plunge to rinse in the same water ;
and name the thickset fish in the same water ;
and name the foaming horse who stumbles into the water
and the katydids and bees in this horse’s fur ;
a man , i fall asleep in the mornings
under after an emptied sky ,
a young gull ( who i shall think of as i ) ,
thrown backwards and backwards by the firm current ,
the motion outwards of breath .
in eye visions ,
i compell my density to indent the not air but sand ,
am ( myself ) equally impressed by it and ingest
all the living portions .
i have this feeling that i am expanding
and feeling , that my breast expands, that my tongue
assumes the topography of the land :
this, the immediate sense that the world is full
and dense .
( i , now , bone
hung on this thin frame mere ,
by skin ( or mother , or organ fruit ,
I , not but the sum of this year ,
inhale whither , stride , exhale whence . )
sometimes , in the mornings , when she is asleep still and tense ,
i wake . i rise stand
on this cliff , and behold
the cold salt air of the Atlantic seen ,
the fishermen starting out with harpoons ,
in their skiffs ,
inhale the rinse ;
and gather this sense
of the slide towards me
of it in tectonic manner , and the reside ,
as ebbs and flows the world of all matter
( and so this spirit of my ) .
the ground i know to be a rock and sand .
( she is asleep in this sand . )
sometimes bend i and touch it with the finger
of my left hand , and feel
the hardness of it ,
contact . c o n v u l sed ,
the shade of i is convulsed into the shades
of the multiplying horizon .
seize i on
wet two cranberries between stones
in the sand , buried , ( her index in my skin
after her hand ) ; will one i eat and one i left
to balance the heavy other .
return : i have the feeling
of sand on my tongue and lips ,
the purple sweetness
in my hair and hair ,
among itself on my stomach ,
and the head of my
haloed by katydids and bees ,
another halo hanging ( holding ) over my stomach ;
under against my back , at the small
of it , where the spine falls off
to the sea ,
i feel the same stone i touched .
i feel it ingress and the ingress of what is hard .
i feel the ingress of my skin . i feel
at my back
not a thing .
will , like air , pass through , and vanish , and return ,
( i feel
the air still coming in and passing through ) ,
the stone and the water and the line , the indentations
of this world
through the skin into itself .
no hardness will be able to contact my inside skin
or preside .
i see her asleep on her side , in skin ,
holding herself , contracted ,
seized from without by something
else and cold .
i have this sense of the feeling of her
before i woke , of the scarps of the inside of her
and the grass ; of sleep leaving
with all of my things and all of my thoughts ;
and of all this as well:
that the dreams of i i have inside
that the shapes of the dreams of i
take form and shape
in the air
that the air in the eye
alive , ( the eye to the lip
agape , ) being the air
through the lip exhaled ,
is the air of every form ,
and is thus all
the air that is