Fuchsia poem

If we put the overground underground
What will go on top?
Dams silt in and wear out
The dome of hope makes a bowl
This is amazing the clones think
Stay near, hold on, I wave
Am I behind or ahead

The gaze lassoing what it passes
On your way
Going to St Ives
Was it lovely there?
With a towel on your forehead
Taking baths and showers
Eating while full
Paying with coupons
How many senses do you have?

The world is not a message
It says the same thing to everyone

But that party in your dreams
Where the graces play on the grass
The children featherwalk
The heirlooms hum
This is not their moment
How much patience can you ask
Under cloud cover
Sun clocks are approximate

Deepening in the crumbling in the doing
How a building becomes what was done to its materials
The action that defines you momentarily
As you embody it breathing

Spontaneous generation
May I? Already doing
Hoisting the machine
In media res
Came to a dark forest
To brighten it
The trees fall on the way
Without dying
Their trunks sprout sideways new and yearning
Like ornamentation
My finger is bleeding

I don’t know how I did it
Standard hazards
Where did it come from
From the beginning
To change your mind
Like moss, the pink kind and the green

A person brings their personhood
In their battering be not afraid
I will be beasts
And I will be fire
And I will be a branchless thorn
And then again

A human being
A building a dwelling
You can only lose everything once

Watch the unfolding
Or shepherd transcription
Steadying one hand with the other
Aspirational body
If you don’t reach
You hold it in your hand

Put your fingers close to your face
And see a tiny floating ghost
Two fingernails and flesh
Not there, but beckoning

Forget about the buds
Either the deer or the rabbits eat better
Or they will bloom in their own time
Waiting for the occupation
Obstreperous, contiguous

On purpose?
By accident?