[Commonplace books: Thomas Farnaby, 17th-century]
It began, I suppose, as a color, yellow-green, The tincture of spring willows, not so much color As the sensation of color, haze that took shape As a light scum, a doily of minutiae On the smooth pool and surface of your mind. A founding colony, Pilgrim amoebas Descended from the gaseous flux when Zeus Tossed down his great original thunderbolt That flashed in darkness like an electric tree Or the lit-up veins in an old arthritic hand.
Posted by stronzo on 03.11.2012
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