With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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I saw the winter clouds moving across the roof of the greenhouse and I hid under the roses; an air face looked down upon us. masses of brilliant kites drifted like a myth over the glass. Sometimes I think I am a mummy of space floating in the tomb of a new daydream. in all transparent cathedrals where a bird of paradise is sequestered, great curtains are drawn over consciousness; yet, our bodies crash upon them, fall through these roofs into the warmth, into the moist leaves and blossoms, into the thick dense buds.
women go round and round the mouth of nerves; their sunshine man with his world of impulses runs up the side of a hill. on land, the prevailing spring is one continuous grey building where the briars collapse and I walk out on the ice that is breaking up in the river. it is a bleached field, an enormous bewitchment smuggled out of time. who will know? who will know that I think of you out there and that I am wild with urges and wolves.
Gloria del Vecchio