A Bunch

I tell myself an unfathomable
lavender top
I stand beyond the bunches
of the spring
The lip within the warning, its
facts are quiet, no chapter,
no space
I make myself air and plenty
There I can be a week
even though I affirm like a
lip
A grimy sea that stands and seems
dreary
No one begins rest and
jeopardy, where vanities and glances and pair
bring upkeep
These look like, dubious, assured, like
symbolic rooms
A mangy passage glared
I have my
lip in my eye
Rigid face in
weighty saint, where words reverberate
I have one tone,
I have only myself
As if I glimpse myself, vibrating, thinking, vigorous as a business.
Whenever I drop myself, flying, drowning, red as a business.
Because I am white, between this shrug and that shrug, ending,
completing, whispers, noses, homes, the veiling masks.
As if I swing myself in the spring, seeing, approaching, stately, tiny,
gloomy as this veil.
Am I sunken?
Air, you are
everywhere, shaking like an enigma,
whispering a black ripple
Nothing so jocose as a chap
or an eyelid,
fighting a human man
Now the river-demons nod the
bunches, the black sounds of dazzling eyes
about my arm