I want to quarry the things that gladdened me these days:
the procession from Market Square;
pollen coating every wet membrane like nuclear dust.
The walk into the village tailored for my eyes perhaps,
this difficult to share. Perhaps you may not have been
enamoured. You were not there.
The filter beds' floorless illusion,
so far below the drift of vagrant seeds;
suspending a muted flora, the moment migrating.
I could stay here perhaps, without dreams, passive, immobile.
Why must it pass to give way to some other day,
substance to a sentiment storm,
perhaps a thing of fleshly being?
