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Book of You: Read My Lips
Catherine Theis

twenty-first century Welcome home to garnets and moon-lit shores. The improbable seeming success of you- (us designers-creators) was always known to me on that first day in the long hallway my near-constant Mars Mission. Are you the sun, or am I? Are you the planet of stars and oceans and trees and ferns and I the volcano of ash and noise? Wise men, watch over us protect us from our ancient enemies. * Sassafrass my ass, said he and pulled the house down. Siege me strategix into me. Sensation is the highest living force to date. Troubadour did you me tur et true ever more forgettable? Ah, good thing I spell with my fingers in green grass yellow. Glad almighty once sacked my door. * Little motion cannot resist the whale shaped shadow which I know to be verval. A minor steppe flings you far from door. Lucky, aware, skysure, * You come in straight lines Recess, and just like that we're off to bed, your ear is my mouth, I'd speak it so Samba jazz in the panama hat I'll write up an excuse note * Why you drive so fast is why I sing so loud is why the leaves cling to our bodies Speeding into the middle lane highway-philosopher's travel- is why my head hangs Cycloptic monsters Ghosts Emanations Greek humors The dancing never stops I feel so lively Hands upon me, this is why The way we speak it so. * Mr. Speaking, I can't quite hear you, though I want to because your long lean body high up in the apple tree, torso as balancing branch, pulls the leaves apart. I shake at the telephone cord connecting us, and knock a few red maple leaves of my own. I am thinking, which only you will be able to see and hear, as to the taste- well, I know your likes and dislikes: the golden mean of long causal sentences these I tracked before I even knew your long ago. Once I sat in the sun under a straw hat reading the classics until my eyes gave out and the sound of the lake was heard by my ill-trained ears, my lips dry with listening, there, on the pier, you striding up to pass without a word, Mr. Speaking, Mrs. Speaking here, come to ask you. * Quiet with the shoehorn: Morning begins rearranging a large bouquet into a smaller, more alive one. Two tiny deeds, gentle & intentional. When times are good, it is easy to be good- I praise you a complete square a person worthy of praise and I am willing. * Revered one, you are not only but an ally. We study only to know only to become disregarding the Roman way. * Sassafrass, the noise is deafening, defeating OTHERWISE UNGODLY. what's his face was looking for you, what I say? None not his beeswax & wouldn't he like to know how the rest of us carry on, carousel across the playing field of rain, rain, rain never without a rest the blows always come. * My year-long interest in how the gravel travels slowly in your mouth (the stem knows the root before its growing) (the moon smiles down on your archangel looks) how the life fluid draining? * Man, your underwater holes, sacred recessed pumice leaves, are now more vacant than you yourself. I will see to the flora handsome when it shakes your hand, remembering the infinitely branching earthing tree and as a flock of birds flies cactus-like, several seablooms undulate, breathe. Closed man-flower, you have no noise. Greek laurel leaves positioned as full stemmed ovaries have a louder cry like that of green seaweed functioning in the thickest part, star-lifting flowers to their veiled parts. Only certain firebirds can move the heavy brain-head. Rising up between the waves, a sea monster's trident. * Places in the sun I would like, Solaria Boat shape beside my head The Thinking Motors churn the Seas I have a third class ticket You a Passenger boarding card I am far from not knowing you Easier things, there are Secrets and Secrecy Wisdom from Withholding

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