Is the work in loud color secrets waiting to be done
Like if we mention the overlooked haunted house displays
Counting both the hiking and hitchhiking rainbow families
Dear mother dear mother the church is cold the church
Is cold is only a form of William Blake’s daily life’s
Permitting the sights of concepts’ prearranged numberings
I will show you rectangles, there were the mountain laurels
Of the houses & people to their not drawn breath lines
Transforming a meadow to what they call straight lines
The baptized enclave of non-saintly sun set & rise
By holding the thought of love absolutized in July
There were faces & arms when no figures appeared, he
At noon shows a view: It’s what we see out the window
Yet I know it’s a picture of the house from which we look,
In which we all live.
