Dear P. XXVI

A bench sits, stares out to sea. It says, sit

and feel this here. Another looks at the swamp,

onto the logarithmic sways of thistle. An

oil painting here, a watercolor there, where

the sky moors the sea, where the crane

arches the orchid. We have feeling, but we

are hovelled, told to pass as nice. Let us

pass the bench and its lathed feelings. Let

me bite the sky away from the seam of ocean.

Let me grieve you and play you, irk you and

deter you. Let me have the of of love, the

square root of you. Let us sit atop this cattle

with a hat and pass the yellow ball that could

be the sun or the eye of a camel in the summer.