Skip Fox

Distant thunder, abiding rest, mid-morning, which I
think it is ten, rings of pond scum, brown and velvet
at once, amid green and white reflections, formed by
breeze rising to wind, arc of attentions rides across para-
bola of late summer, cicadan pulse, as an18-wheeler rounds
the bend
until, I guess, a circle is realized, a machine that
can self-replicate, endlessly, needlessly like a word, it
must have had its source in the sun, or so we think.

Clouds darken in the northeast, mediation of color by
color as form passes into form, there is no such as one, the
sole, discriminate, that does not move, toward many, none
that is not permeated, does not return, then outward and
again that every movement may be realized in accord of
which each instance is as utterance of fact (It's going to
rain), simply, and that everything you've learned may
come to nothing, but for the largesse of such moments.

Flood of color deepens as trees are again persuaded down-
ward and to the left, northwest under daughters' dark
healing, come what may, (clouds? . . . it is that simple, yet
in the complexity of its address there breathes a sense of presence
(only?), as the palm in the mind is a tongue, which is also of
material substance, like the heart (and that intricate, now that
the relative has been restored to include what the eye follows or
in thumb's ear where pears are falling, entirely. . . . It's raining.

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