are so....

In Ireland the girls are so pretty. It is not your body I love. It's the window. The view out.the door? pours out the countryside bog peat and back breakers sweating in the sun. long day straw makers and hay gatherers. Jay birds and bog tracker hounds, wolf hounds, in the setting sun. The smell in the air is pure. As moon light over Galway bay. where the back breaking hay makers live. Earn their kip. Kip their urn of funeral pure pyre. Or the R roll of the lilting tongue speaking brogue and lough to the speech . Aye is that it, my hussy? well, we see because sin's behovely to all men. But the heart land night sings and Ireland is great. Its swell is beauty. Darned in the knit of it. Pooled by the kings of men.

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clacking on the heel . clickin' in night.hawk. buried by sun. pell-mell down
in the tomato sun. word that speaks in me, speak in the sun, past sense nonsense send & resend rescind pearl and nave. where past spender spend. fortune in a glaze. the stiff eyed church.


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not night but fair moon glamorous in its rising setting. prising hour surprising the hill of folks and their friends. Night like a narcotic need, is the lover of all men.

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Language is the speaker of all men, not their tabulator or ruler, but the cataloger of ordering sentences words which without their own intent pull into itself vortex of contain

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Hair has seen this glossy as the schematic sheen of . glances glabrous moon ~ .