Once the truth was gooey thunder. A wad
of spirits glommed on every tree and rock.
Rainbows gauzed their signatures. Green wonder
knelt before the omens. Rapt, agog. Me,

I love these acred cubbyholes, the lace
they leave on sea and sky, on stone, on bush;
this wickerwork of our Cartesian souls,
these lucid rooms and numbered pairs. This skin.

Keep your smug romantics who idolize
the blur, the smudge, the gush, the night. Give me
this plane of sanity where blue semantics
rules the earth, and every angle is right.