Dreaming in New Zealand
I love this tongue as mine (is mine)
and would all were as I am wont to hear here: sex, a quest, great grail, for I hear seeks, with no sweat spent to search that isn’t sweet, as every beck and call’s both song and beak with which to hold our tune. Winter wears her well-earned warrior’s clothes, a season wearing thinner, wetter, colder, but still and ever green, here— she’d not leave her leaves, not shed what’s hers though the southerly tried and tries to whistle them away. And since this is my comedy of ears, in one and in the other’s fate’s to trip again, I’ll claim: the body is both bread and breed, as words well said are planted seed and grow so where we tread is treed, where each line read remains the reed on which the note is played when pressed to lips, mouth, self-ordained as priest, weds wed to we’d and weed and so with word grown one forever as even the dead remain in deed, wound round and round in these wet sheets of wind.
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