Please,
from that tender column of you which has grown so accustomed to its trembling that it no longer merely feels still but believes still and knows still as it knows the other columns in its colonnade—
with dear confidence and dearer suspicion, as though hotpalmed pilots in taskchair cockpits playing familiar games with familiar enough faces and increasingly impressively alarmingly but we suppose unsurprisingly valleygappingly familiar renderings who it must be trusted are of the same means despite different ends because if not that then for what christ what are these games anyway—
please from the cess likelife sickening the moss which grows on that tremorous column
grant me with your perverse patience given my perspectival perversity the arrogance to feel until I believe until I know that I am the first of my mayday parade of wisterial selves to realize—I mean to really realize—that here in my sunwhite room of windows—
windows which I endeavor and fail but at least do endeavor to keep clean, to the exception of the floors, the ceiling, my face, my genitals, my tongues, my attitudes, my associates and my associations, my altruism cum ungulatism, my unchoral protestations, my protestant uncles and to a stricter measure the catholic ones who scoffed rightfully when I said the world would be mine before I knew better than to want it, my bank accounts, the bathrooms, my linens, my four-by fractured forearms, the very sills of the windows themselves, my teeth, and my spit which I drink like mother’s milk—
where I sit and watch nature, gay and forever enough for me,
that I am not watching nature, not actually, not absolutely,
but am instead watching how an architect—
himself finding home in the homes of others not romantically and listlessly but suckingly and sticky as the fingernail-split shaft of a curb weed, himself a weed like a weed growing with such confidence as to become unlike a weed and more like a wildflower because if not that then what christ what fields have we left—
managed to forever enough nature into these windows and so sell me in my perspectival perversity on the luxury of living things made dead for me—though—and this is critical—without dying—by that enoughing;
on the luxury of the walls which hold these windows being equal to or—if reconsidering the floors, the ceiling, my face, et al.—it seems to me, he says, greater than that nature—a colostomic erudition of flora and fauna into form;
on the luxury of his baton calligraphy to nature’s evident willingness until eagerness to be not only conducted but conducted thusly
until I am so enamored of his curation, his guile, his cytharic orchestration of grass willow serpent feather diagonal route of rain cattail antenna slender leg of pondskipper horizon rivulet quill fissure of earth fissure of tongue into tongues fissure of where claw clawed pumping ventrus fisher beak and the invisible path I trace with my stiff finger from where I belong to where I am until I flick my own chin fissure of my chin some one hundred years from now
that I wished for him to window just further enough
to blind me.