Dark, here in the burning wind this minute
staggers on, immense, full used and not consumed. Red
day is over, yet its hissing heat for want of pity does not
crack. What song for summer? Why, when evening seethes?
A book? A page? A liquid avenue! So let me
work, build wild these slender sounds, with "glass"
and "skin" or "secret slice," pronounce,
say, tell, ask: tongue bouquet!
"How many blossoms can you grow?" the
piper said. I dream a rare blue tendril laced about my
tower, red leaves and bells, a smell like dirt from after
morning showers.
More?
If only... Likely... Run out? Through!
I than(k) you people; Love u, Sue
(Written using the letters and words given with the
book.)
