to 5

    on the 5ives




Cylinders crucibles and touch thrilling through
the contents temporary and deepest

I separate solemnly

to look beyond the artful system of the Mirror

superficial as sweet as they chose to suppose
that sunshine was the privilege of spirit recoild
however powerful enough to have plagued
the eager enjoyment the appetite

You are too little time and deadly snakes
my father's fatal garden

I should be altogether Fancy
          glowing blossoms
Plucking away and lovely flower

And now after such seclusion
         given up as if
Tempted to be the fatal birthmark


The thunder-stricken man fearfully acquainted
thinks it as it is not

it must be                    All other mode
unclasping an eyelid nature as the elixir of all

She came across him like the most splendid
sweetness of gold
                                        rage already certain

earthly happiness                     placid simile
cordiality as the skill requisite
daughter of its outburst from the very air

no flowers were such a smile
          love thwart us in volumes of deeper crimson

And what agency save its way to act a small artizan
shapeless half-ideas which Nature itself

                                                                                that of the Familiar

at work
distils plants perfectly represented


                    sensible frame
          the condition of hands

          little sip of piercing looked to
                    how often is out
                    in a little sip of piercing

          it shall be the pool into tears
I to be creeping


oftentimes you save what she was not
utterly lost somewhat of passion

gathered around the dazzling effect of harm


          a frame
a flower


Spirit those dewy flowers in it
strength of deeper to be in the sake of being

those dewy flowers in it

bridegroom shall wear it                     go forth
instances of the whitenesses of his lodgings

momentary footsteps eyes downward

Make itself in its Song
answered the fires of blood
out of their spirits uttering a Masque

trouble and possibility          strange fantasies of pleasure
our fate is not reach You



flower odors

j. p. craig