a white cliff of hearing water
is hearing a cliff-nest boiled in milk.
whiter the sea-mews boil in the jaws,
swim up through the hearing,
see through.
yonder a yolk, a yellow mew
falls from the sun to the milk
and we meet, climb the cliff’s veins
dry off in the clothespines
as pins in shadow, thin but holding
warm stones in hands
pina is a blue tree, shadow,
tall, with humorous hands
that is viscous hands transducing
the wrapping arms transducing
in fingers fine hairs
on the backs of warm stones
on the backs of the root
threaded dirt, animals thread
saccade saccade the city of trees
with cinderblock city with
warm stones in hands.
one of her animal bodies
folds to the lee as a city
another of her bodies
is heard and folds to the lee
pina was a blue tree, our shadow. tall. with humorous feet, that is, with viscous feet
focusing yolk in the pressure of a round, streaking up the bark the jellied form of
touch, an arm wrapped, dropped, wrapping a learnt persistence, learning not to
continue but to persist, returning to love in movement, in being rooted as the
movement across the floor, roots canvassing the floor roots describing the ground of
the whole cliff, a severance gelid transacted, breath of an eye in the first node the
second node the third root hairs projecting to wall for transduction
saccade saccade saccade the blood through the bark terminal
branched for arrivals on the back of the threaded dirt current saccade the root bank
and dropping, arm wraps and dropping, seeing pins fall in the opening
trees
so you’re walking around with painfully frozen
gallstones in your hand (or stones of the gizzard of a giant bird smooth
and round smooth) round and warm in this frozen town
where the plaster figure of a bird centres the odd facade
catches ice that holds paint on till it melts
and you see
because you can
over the giant
damask rose
season to come
a giant set
of blue trees. pina, what you said
in the taxi was
I am the back of the taxi, blue and all
over you
you were just something that came up in looking through
like my one tree blue over another tree blue,
fragrant that’s all and I danced you. but you weren’t
that dance. chainsaw. stacked cakes ooze. now who now who. driver don’t mind
I’m pressed up into windows and full of transport, blonde cakes and the sticky
sharp view
on the crumbling edge,
then on the hard substrate
soft,
recently fallen.