PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST WINTERCORN AN ODE, The seed is round...
CCXLI

WINTERCORN

AN ODE
van Gogh's Red Vineyard
The seed is round
so it can roll away
way from its tree --The Moment breathes:

Th'tree withers into a scribbled mesh-like
Chaos of webs which catch Th'Moment
from th'Darkness of its own Voids

& Treason's thousand trusts
--The Moment is (the) being

within the eternal seed
watering the imaginary lilacs

The Moment breathes!
( suspended & sustained )
It is alive!

Although there's frost upon th'
words spoken by The Winter's cold,

autopsying th'petunias

the Winter is the hard surface
(of) Reality that cracks eternity,
the unwelcoming condition of (life
th'words) fashioning beautiful fancies
of illusive frost upon Th'Darkness

is the misted sun --the Moment turns
to frost ... and Frost hangs upon the air
a Moment (that is the unwelcoming nature
& birth of th'World)

which then dissipates until Darkness
salutes The Moment of Cold
that, unlike the paternal tree,
stands firm against the frozen Moment

when the maternal Winter crushes Th'Moment
compassionate as a golden drop!

And sunshine is inexorably
compassionate: O, the Moment
becomes the seed!
then, taking a singular breath
... the Moment dies (when, out of breath,
it fails to make an impression on Th'Cold).
Even the Sun, sagged, aghast amidst
th'Cold's hecklers in th'Honeycomb,

although largely through cool prudence,
even the Sun does not yet seem entirely
capable of rescuing Th'Moment
dying in th'Winter's cold.

The Cold collects all moistures
raising a nut to th'rank of kernel
and swells with a burst of Hope!

looking about the room:
the seed's room enough
(so white in its makeup
The Pinkish Flesh stands out
like an open wound!

getting fat on slabs of
stamina alone ) where bedroom
collects bloodily
all the humidity of the afternoon

almost warming up to Life,
almost, in mute air-conditioners
(yet humming along
as The World rolls over & above
& under fragments of the solid,

those black wheels of fragments
of flutes' songs,

in Death's smallest month:
Time tearing up the tethers
of the White (th'Obvious

encased in itself),

lethal as a hopeless longing,
leaning against th'outlines
of Nothingness, whitewashed
by Th'Enduring, not the Moment
but: memory's the only thing that survives

polishing th'windows that cannot look,
putting on Joys like a jacket
against the unfeeling Cold outside

& turning its insides into an oven!
Th'Hurt! develops

& may finally germinate
into, "What is The Purpose
of it all!?!" moment to moment

pass the dreams, th'lives

"Am I waiting for something?"
seemingly endlessly waiting
for something that's not going to come
Lord, deliver me from waiting!

behind barrier's copious glass
watching the evening's scribbling palms
wringing the Meaning out of th'stars

(all the time knowing it wasn't coming):
" What gives here? "
God's silver semens

as Th'Winter rolls around again
& kills one or another Godly Hope

of The Moment crying
in its yellowest Warmth

(of all): "What is The Purpose of
it!?!" within the seed,

Gain's Great Grip, Loss' loose one,

afraid of its mother The Cold,
turning up the air-conditioners,

"To part the hair!?!" 105

And that Voice
of ( almost ) a human being!

flaying th'final flesh

lost in its Cold
--Moment cried for its
comb!...

^{105} T.S. [email protected]

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