the soundtrack is Scarlatti and through the at low volume earphones
the late afternoon children outside and the birds … running is it
like writing? just putting down the feet, one after another … fugue,
or the bubble of pronouns through my consciousness, this, this, this,
this … it’s easier to post a poem from the archives, man, and drink
that duckbonesoup! … I slept all afternoon whilst she played on her
computer … harpsichord music is so sensual, although this recording
is of a pianoforte … the Bach? … laughing happily in its mountain
bed, softfernleaves & short grass, letmeyoursatyr be in this yr park,
she, she, she, she has this way of smiling and then she she she she ..
we … the sunlight on the water in the mountain stream in its little
bed and up above in the softhanging pine branches the throaty warblers
sang … words join together like that, at the hip, and down the slope
a small path leads, ‘neath trees … the scent of mountain pines, the
village lost far below, on animalskins we .. gently the water trickles
its patterns of sound and light o’er those polished rocks … oh my
that duck soup, that ducksoupducksoup callin’ callin’ me … O,o,o,o
in silence on the mountainside, the stream flows, see its dancinglight
hear its soft song … a halcyon flash of blue, her long black hair O
the thews of my back see nor clouds nor storms in this clear sky above
see, Ophelia, this is where we sport, away tha little castle, foulpile
o’rocks, alive I wash my face clearwatermountainstream and you undress