am come by little countries to the yes
of her youth.
And if somebody hears
what i say—let him be pitiful:
because i've travelled all alone
through the forest of wonderful,
and that my feet have surely known
the furious ways and the peaceful,
and because she is beautiful
III
Picasso
you give us Things
which
bulge: grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind
you make us shrill
presents always
shut in the sumptuous screech of
simplicity
(out of the
black unbunged
Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes
or
between squeals of
Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness
solid screams whisper.)
Lumberman of The Distinct
your brain's
axe only chops hugest inherent
Trees of Ego, from
whose living and biggest
