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Fanny Howe

Dear Father I erred I left my body to look for you (its image nestles in the center of a wide valley in perfect isolation wild as Eden) One became many: spirits in presence yes workers and no workers up on the tops of the hills in striped overalls toy capes puffing and blue veils as yet unrealized in the sky I made myself homeless on purpose for you shinnying up the silence murky hand-pulls Gray the first color many textured clay beneath my feet my face shining up I lost faith but once (theology)

She said I said why fear there's nothing to it at any minute a stepping out of and into no columns no firmament Most of each thing is whole but contingent on something about the nearest one to it (human interference)

Ringing bells in winter churches while vast clouds gray over a kindness formerly unmirrored on your face The fine line to every sense (it ends) The stranger kin to the divine (sometimes)

Confused but moving the only stranger I know has a bed a blanket a heartfullness famous for hypocrisy When she's not trusting anyone she leans her crown upon her hand snowslop all the way to the grating before lying down in a little block of childhood (one hour for the whole of life) and her book to record it

Was the chasm between her mind and things constituted by the intellect's catalogue or by the presence of senses (around her face objects fall into special functions tangled loops against concrete walls moonish nuclear fission capped with molten gold) or by a sticky sub-atomic soul

See how this being at the neck and bowel gives the head and groin a taste of hell that seeps throughout some nervous systems all senses battered and inflamed where the soul drinks disabled and attacks only a she a she can see who smiles in dreams between clenched hands sobbing from wanting to win her pity her in the born-hating thing she finds there living