Parading

Said an aesthete: “What distillation from magic herbs

What is a wound but a flower

You know I always liked my walking shoes

All above us is the touching

What I want is the grand chaos that spins out syntax,

The earth knows André Breton,

Let the rain kiss you.

Now in the blessed days of more and less

& sometimes when we were birds

The air is fresh, smelling of wood.