Suspended on day's lips
The beautiful windows in shirts
The beautiful windows their fire hair in the black night
The beautiful windows cries of alarm and of kisses
Above me below me behind me are fewer than in me
Where they form only a sole crystal blue as wheatfields
A diamond divisible into as many diamonds as would be needed for all the waxbills to
bathe in
And the seasons that aren't four but fifteen or sixteen
In me among them the one where metal blooms
The one whose smile is less than lace
The one where twilight's dew merges women and stones
Luminous seasons like an apple's interior after a quarter's sliced out
Or else like an excentric quarter inhabited by beings who are in cahoots with the wind
Or else like the wind of the spirit that in the night shoes the algebra-nostriled horses
with boundless birds
Or else like the formula
Tincture of passion flower
Tincture of hawthorne {aa 50 cent. cubes
Tincture of mistletoe 5 cent. cubes
Tincture of squill 3 cent. cubes
that fights the uproar of galloping
Mesh by mesh the seasons haul up their glittering net from my eyes' spring water
And in that net there's something I saw it's the whorl of a fabulous seashell
Which reminds me of the emperor Maximillian's execution in a sealed vessel
There's what I loved it's the highest limb of the coral tree that's going to be struck by lightning
It's the sundial's style at true midnight
There's what I know well what I know so little of you have to lend me your claws old delirium
To lift me with my heart alongside the cataract
Aeronauts speak of the air's efflorescence in winter