Parading

Don’t let your golden wings suffer, let them taste the Beloved’s

So much of any year is flammable,

We share the sky, all of us, the whole world:

For thee the labour of my studious ease

the year turns into air

I mean to say the rough-hewn edges of time and space,

tour de force

or. The deer, nearly / Color blind, see blue

The secret is to walk evading nothing