The sky is clear of all but broad contrails
(although this day has pelted soaking rain)
rubbly pastel trackways and spreading veils,
drifting slowly over blackbird refrain.
A giant triangle, a Scottish cross,
(simply guaranteed by divergency)
linear properties of inherent loss
when parallels desist, and cease to be.
X marks the spot; now the X drifts on;
the triangle behind the thorn has gone;
a zenith sand-bar shines out in the sun;
a jet so high, without a trail or sound,
ghosts over the garden. I have no ground
other than words that whisper what they've found.
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poesia"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
