for Patricia Anderson

“To do as Adam did”







through the twilight’s fluoride glare Mercury in perihelion







(rotating exactly three times







while circling the sun twice)







to Pluto foot tilt up the slide at either plane







and build a Garden of the brain.















Internetted eternities, interspersed







with cypresses







ply ringed air about the many spectacled apples there.







Flamestitch niches orb in swivel orb, The Muses thrush at center







turning. Phospheros arborescens they sing







sense’s















struck crystal clarities







to knock the knees







(or scarlet hollyhock, against a near blue sky).







No end of fountains lost among the shrubberies full eye may bare.







Fixed stars







with fireflies jam the lilac.















The Lord is a delicate hammerer.







Gold hive upon gray matter







He taps synapse (“carrying to”) (“carrying away”)







an immense bronze pinecone moon-knit at the end of a vista







of sunny jets d’eau, silver poplars. All







shivered in a pool.















Literally, a flowing: form-take-hand







-with-form







(That Which Fasteneth Us)







pillar to pillar the great dance arch itself through all that







is or was or will be, 3/4 time. This will be a glade







at the head of one stream















and a resonant gnomon before it will stretch regions of signaling







gnat-like resiliencies in the atmosphere







of where we are —







or were.







Or will be, when the mingled frame of mind







of man is celebration.















Gates, which separate the wings







of tiered ilex, open







in caverns of atoms passing from one into another’s zenith







of periodic movement, vast helicoidal shift:







a vaulting of arteries







beating their heads against the dark.















This is the body of light.







































Vertically in a chromatic spread chord







— Elysian elision —







J’avais bâti, dans un rêve, un palais, un château ou des







grottes







along the lines of sight.







Dear Garden:















This is the way the world begins, the word begins.







Through here,







where grow the galax and aster together,







I have planted Shadow illuminating The Field of Glittering







Opposites:







ange arc-en-ciel















flocons de neige







I have attempted a temple as if hierarchies of music







beating against time gone adagio, that is the Secret Pool we return







to. And not to stone







but to the world behind its human







mirror.















This is the way the word begins, the world begins,







wrestling the old ineffable to Bosch’s amazing white giraffe







— or St. Rousseau







intent a symmetry of whisker.







Love itself is a kind of mirage nesting it all







together. Around a center















no one can see the end of at the Well of The Bottomless,







I have placed parallels of bright guardians







“along with the trill







of the Nightingale,







and the call of the European quail”







as in The Pastoral.















(Signed) THE GARDENER















P.S.







“I have refracted it with Prismes, and reflected with it Bodies which in Day-



light were of other colours; I have intercepted it with the coloured film of Air



interceding two compressed plates of glass; transmitted it through coloured



Mediums, and through Mediums irradiated with other sorts of Rays, and



diversly terminated it; and yet could never produce any new colour out of it.



But the most surprising, and wonderful composition was that







of Whiteness.”





