140. Towards the End of the Eighth Month

The ears of rice were arranged as a poem
Busy, now autumn, stolen
The red inside luminous
These farmers, those glances have summer’s strangest
Along August’s long broken edge

Long                         The United States grows, a form of rice
endings                     and it harvests the person he should occupy
                                Bent in order to use his hands, to grasp the green root of Gone
                                A bright red to gather a factory of evening into us
in Uzemasa                A barn glanced along these farmers
                                Tighten and scorched, the United States
busy                         which now grows itself. We stare

Unpeel the morning hours in pilgrimage
The autumn harvest starts to thin
Recently the United States was a vast quantity
aluminum, thin roots
The red which dawns up from inside the ear
This map aims to ring our flesh

The 11th                   He is impressive and completely internal
                                occupying intensity with means
beginning                  He is bitter, complete, like an old poem
                                Decisions rearrange the words again
                                The United States unpeels from its own establishment
recently                     already in mourning and adoration

The autumn harvest begins to thin, a forced peel
Is it possible to manage justice with real duration
The types of comfort in this country?
A farmer in summertime maintaining a strange side of the map
the volatile opinion of the flesh

A                              He occupy intense meaning in her
                                You are saffron sent abroad
handhold                   Their this he, lily they reel
                                They are all in my mouth
                                bitter, astringent, complete
tightens                     The poet decides the words’ arrangement
                                Again

The autumn hour stuck between mourning and worship
The strength of this domain recently became thin
In each worker, each deadline, is an idea no longer flesh
Red and green reach through a dog
toward summertime

Red parts                  They farm your intense significance
                                This the trace strikes flesh from point of view
                                The methods are saffron
mark                         the iris reeled from his mouth
                                bitter, astringent
It brings                    Already the autumn hour begins in a fine, explosive powder
this country               The domain of worship, aluminum

Iris, they reel
those who are close to my mouth
A situation hits another eye and is a form of agitation
That morning was colored with aluminum, it’s hours autumned
An enormous amount of worship
A morning made of red rooms
A summertime made more strange
The temporary landscape of meat and blood, the farm

It will                        The methods used to harvest safflower, saffron
                                This persona, this iris, reels in the months
internal                     Some poet solves the arrangement of time against text
insurgent                   struck against a new eye
                                The adjacent discipline of the will
Almost                      The autumn of this hour, this start, this precise substance
stopped                     Summertime strikes temporarily as meat, in sight and red lacquer