Light Passes Through   (for Horner, A. “to happiness” and Wilson, B. P. “a la cube”)     ... “Grand,” says Jami... two galleries paint a blew flower read. Scribbled out, she stands. Read, her hair seems a blew rind. We look at looking. The bud smiles orange with architecture, leaving long and good edges. Clothes sigh and bridge in commemoration. Our covers are curiously a museum of litter. The blinds upon Your lips silver-repeat this. Reader, of reminders so important, the read pump of lines, a spackled ceiling in blew and read. Nothing separates us now. 750 Hornby Street. Pen, we have both extra numbers: what we own, the aesthetic space. Becoming Elgin are the words that i didn't have on Cader Idris. Troubling parenthesis (i have spent a hallway of happiness on You.” ending in a mark of quotation. Long medusae of a poem. You are no poem but in one. A boy named Joy,  a picture as my own image, not here. A showers of sparks out doors, one flower morning to emission, blew to double Windsor the lines that divide My/self from images inside, dawn under transparency to betray great poetry, to benefit the élan missing from these rooms. Halving division has always been sitting in between Our scope, yet so very clear to Me, its lines do not a poste create; the masks couples with frames. Beautiful but used, there! burns a vegetal city. Academia calls precious the mussel poem for flesh devoured, not for a salt-washed shell. My garbage unpublished again. Not yellow, Nick's taxi edges a curb. Describe the type of specimen for which choice mates in ceremony, You and i. Red tokens have a way of being. Come to me before my dying sight; i won't talk of how my gloves are hands. (My sight is numbered.) i forget to capitalize after a period. The smallest as everything ends and begins again. This poem – walking – this red (all night long) draining river into sea. A sex goddess of America, O'hara passes (Eagle) McKay and Kingsway: i feel the love of sound inside #202. The orange tree is beautiful again, ice in bowl, moved i remain spatula-folded in two ruins of some thing rusting on paper. A distraction in a petit breath, a dream of loving You, and melting into the island of Koshima. Broken, let's not express what's hidden (The frame that gates off these landscapes. Nick pours Dada into the chrism of a hammer and a sledge, past turban-pink masters, chickens, into his pocket's radio. Dolls rivet round the stage of unreliable rows. Under shadow, false pedestrians, peeling jaune and tasting poem.) let's – at the time of experience, at the poets, have society's narrative poem in bed. For its being is over. Around every (Jami) thing, the sun cogs. Every house that has had alley empty of spark, card-wet and sidewalk, scribes to make the visible rather than make the completed. Never knowing, the gallery's fuel (i'm about the errant, being away. “Poetry, bed me again. Slam me to the boards.” nor the return to blew wire. Let go. Brief ecstasy, before this library of orange sections unlocks an pneu art scene. In Our cedar tavern, Nick speaks the place and in smiling vapours, trapped in parenthetical asides, within a suit of poetry.) where the glass is an eye (shaking fingers), the stained and shatte/read doors of snapped, utilitarian substance, or differing text. Jaune, the durable drive to evaluate and describe examples in formation, in step, involved with their specimen. Poem as list, as historicized label, dividing a movable feast. Blast and bless poste modernism for unveiling the shards between You and s. Beautiful my body of script, of a nature organic, of being unafraid to kiss. Time becomes all ways. Off the hinges hang these material images. Some fashion a room of definite space, pneu poets breathe radiance, into Eurasia, left and write. Here, the carnival of Jami – the imprints of explosif in the ground – let'S burn the remaining sparklers. She presents blew hair a-guillaume on paper, and now shadows. Our heads cut off as we are taken by photos, stalks of legs tripping in a field. Perhaps poems are mistakes: see the cloakroom-like cafe, i am petit for You, bleu threads from my pen, up and returning, words under woven light, a place, a final sound, lights a pneu voice, a doppler shift from read to blew. On a table, ready for installation, off We go: every hour, Nick exits the jaundice streetlight, the mainstay of umbrella-arches, and hot bread. Satisfaction. “Verily perfect,” say the glass portraits, “(Ex) knots pink cars, now black novelties; rooms overland in coats, in prams.” Be patient; i'm not finished yet. Untitled and everything, patches peel away. J. am i in scaffolding? Read togs so good, like You, they're quilts. Arrows fish through the pneu publication Nick builds on line. This prov./symb. flower stops at a sign reading '59. Batik threads pass through My starlit comb: was it plaque, plack, or placard? Gorgoneia, the address of the VAG, petit bleu, pneu/matic and poste chair. In the rusty grass, my sister; your long tubes, in-reflect a photo album. Reddening the box . Lase-taste cabaret, little blew, steam, two people, cup. Story-real, 750 Hornby Street. Jami pays the price of admission. A double- passe as lux pauses before telephones, pink animals, and bamboo. A mauve hawk wings through Our scene, wild knives laughing at My shirt. Our meeting signals choice. Your fur awaits hermitage. Complementary orange (half jaune), rouges a pneu book of pictures. A fox is a dandelion, i light, a room of walls, the garbage in a food court.] [Everything red lays through the door and bedside, ahush through the pen all composed of read/bleu, cork-board/bed. Reader, i insect pin. Petit bleu returning through pneumatique tubes. Jami stands before a photograph to define frozen marble, pried, i think, from Zykofsky's memorial. The frieze of the VAG speaks: a night on the streetlights, my anti-manifesto, this on the outside, i am unpublished again. The heavy loan of minutes. (though recall You'll be dropped off.) A phantom of fire works with use, with red senses, in both smashed in order, in love with poetry; i red poems into lilies, and where You lay decaying rinds of piano explode. With. Nick being told with days, as one with a home long gone. When doors were suggestions, suddenly open. Primrose, i want to mull her questions. My ear is flower. So close, so ancillary my heart, avant-garde with stereo imagism (so appropriate/d). Discuss with me location, and come before language. Reflections, with no point to being incised, poised to kill poem, pry loose the lust for a skin of words. These photographs are killing Me. There's no body beneath jaune. P.s. place qualifies diversify: these long nows beautiful, a subconscious shutter refraining. O'Hara a (and the) “Dove” in the tags of jerm? and ...9... moving every (Jami) thing  placed underneath, guide me in two. Rather than ingredient, building in the read doors we climb stares of breath, climb Jami's task that is paperclip; We are do the same things, seeking beautiful days in between. In one hue, of read in love with blew and breaking free of Academia's leash on poem, i create movement – pushing on the surface – not putting angles into the experience, throttling the vision of what's not seen. Aha. i laugh at these universities-as-the-pneu-patron; Japanese Macaques write about Nick's sun-jaune taxi. i arrive, tracks inserting me into what i was doing at the beginning. Batte/read – the line is surface and the symbolic towers winding rosebud handles round these blew prints. i'm an architect in love, about recipes and making poem again – the signs are short dinners, drifting on: You are not happening. The pearl, the key, the G-spot of those gardens alift on a face. Pneu. Why mirror My mentor's definition of polis? Nick's ”suit“, in my mind, is this walking theatre. Reader, My lover, red or of durable substance, and perishable company 'neath a macro and Parisian scope. i demonstrate in two rather than a pale, uniting égalité. Shatte/read, upon Thee, Poem i call “poem unsuitable”, marble as though living rock, Jami hews another Petra. Technology, the object (banana) mirrors, exhausting the mind (et-cetera), using language as though orchid. (Beyond always. Outside of family, i notice that Your horses freezing leap, hearing the smoke leaving the lonely fore.) Deer faces of re-viewers: “Over here, look,” courting the individual. From the Acropolis of words – broken and drunk, dull and stupid – i light Your fuse and get away fast. Buried under close adult supervision, a molotov Cocteau in My gloves, inasi len two rks hop fro mwi thin, i long for the city of words, Placed Upon the Horizon )Casting jaune from ocean, Homer/Phantasia( i'm so wasted on You. So artificial, museum white and glitter, the blinds upon Your silver lips repeat ellipsis. Is poetry waiting on darkness. Say i am, J. Deeper still, the stare in-between rouge & bleu turns into lions. The read lamp  has been avoiding My lips confessions. No longer home of picture/word/book. 750 Hornby Street, now we are alone, foreign flowers open inside Our vehicle. Centre for a while before winking out. The square-lit well. Photographs buy, lot, and express a waiting customer, eak Marriane in between read, blew. A man, Nick in his jaune (cedar) coat, writ less ephemeral, satellites at Kent's repairs, rounds a camera-year, sold to crook. !sh At the acme of these se/grex stares – Jami regarde à l'intérieur de deux lions en pierre – i raise my arms to a phantom crowd, glass perspiring on a muddy 26-57, awalk on a street of smash'd amethyst: the paintings would not see Us so We went into the lens hood. Poem, how beautiful You are.       - Moss Whelan