all she has to do, the simple this

so narrow are the walls
(so narrower than) distinct also from other walls
constantly spanning out into the neighborhood
and to the outer bandages of artificial subdivisions
into the world out from the planet
so elasticized is living
even harmonically existing


the spheres stretch
and grow sweeter and more potent
while the noticed yeast of hate follows apace
but not facing with arrows
this is how sweat heat refinement
shimmers out and upward
into somethingness where language as a fossil
is a heavy, lumbered thing
one has to make space for

but thought becomes the real
and here at speeds better than death
one goes beyond the fact of it

while she looks out from tiny window
not a wink farther than to the potted plant
a slave also to soil
and she thinks nothing

this has been my painting
this has been the condensation on the frame
around my painting for this day now evening
April the 7th of '07