So we move in the forest of water of ink,

nodding our stately palms like moose,

and walk out of the forest

when the force of the ink in our path is more forceful than ours,

butting antlers, the flat part of which,

speaking to the cities and countries of

rhythm of movement of food and of death,

warm warm death, died warm, is called the palm.

Move the mountains.

Bring over the rocks that will cry out in tongues,

the ash in men's hair, the red ash on the nest of time,

the myth, the rhyme and Adonis dead.

Will we

will we

will we dissolve

And the pole of my choice is my body,

the color of my ink in the water.

Fields of fortune, give it all,

give it all to burn or water?

Were it water, I would not drown,

and all the seals that spindrift spun go bumpily humpily home to

Paradise, and everything's nice and tidy in here at last. Whew!

Oh desire's a strong whale, it never sleeps,

it is in and around all the waves and arches of home,

nothing goes through it,

it does not sleep, what it eats eats it,

it has no digestion.

In short

it "does not

lack anything."

Whoopee! It is late in handwriting.

You are the dark of lightly swarming faces, oh darlin!

you are the night in lovely steaming places, oh darlin',

oh my dear.

My love you are like the dock.

Had I a cradle to rock

hardly a dock, hardly a dock,

when the four of us rock

You know when somebody calls you

They got the wrong number they're sorry?

Ha ha ha ha ha! We hae no sense of time,

Soon we will bug etymologies out of existence.