blue socks ride the ferry to moon.

18 knows the next line to be
said
out loud
the curve of woman bends
the eye to the ground,
so modeled after death, no
fear can ever ever enter,
the seasons want
specific loves,
of
snow fall of leaves-
gardens, tomatoes, beauties,
beaches, and fires
in
the heart of each one
like love but, unmoving
omni temporal
all here, the girl, the woman that
has bent the world to her knee, bends
as well, and leads in the
sectioning of a grapefruit,
in the translucent tangerine,
in the pear moored out
on the
frozen lake,
out by the boulder
dragged by
memories glacier
there
the air
sharp as crystals, in her
nose, and burns her skin blue
she sings, and signs
the birds their new melody, and
lets the roads forget,
lets the graves turn to
dust, and prints leaflets out
to the dead, and the
dead wait
with the dead, and the lions
and the brutal sun
of the friendless, and the forgotten
the golden seal is delivered by her
absence- she goes
to come back, and then follows,
paw pad,
man
and wraith impressions
to
this blue serenity,
and calls it
Niagara, or home, or thee
and enfolds
the compass of
the world, in her eyes gravity
stunning the wilderness silent
with in me.