Dreamed 1987/1/9 by Chris Wayan
I never had an eye for structure.|
Rap rhythm, the cadences of Yeats,
crabby Gothic symmetries of sonnets
... to me it's all just texture.
I grow concretions,
My life's in the word or line,
We build the fractal forms we know.
Chaos Congress! Once upon,
Hang like honey ants,
O-mouths blare, |
As in the best of theaters:
But the Speaker's flown.
Eye have no single I to see.
Still surprised my art grows
Human esthetic unity
Your, your, your, your
Your single signature.
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