Allen Bramhall

My Beth Poem to Whirled

The history of day is a poem itself. It tells the house to enfold and embrace. The topic sits with power 
merge with function clock. To be a person in the light, landing in the sense of land, includes the hand that says it 
hands. This is the thing, if love could attain, all along linking piecemeal. It can, and has all the time. 
All the time, that brusque moment. To embrace the house as love fills it, that's why we have hands. A time intended, 
and tended, with a well, out back: these are running statements, you and me. With arbours and bee hives and 
visual trees: an orchard for the time, and the bees: exactly all the bees in their nature.

A deer is an envy.

“Greensleeves” edifies.

A pond is a planet.


People hold hands, truly. A hand is a vast continent, and a love is still waters. The day is the history of
Monday, or fall, or mostly sunny (until night). Night is the prime nature of when night as a feature, in terms of 
light as the caldron of when light could be by, fulfills a dark feature. When night is a feature true to love, you 
are a word in love. So we inhale land, clouds, other clouds, and the place where we could place, ourselves. 
The day is inside and out of that. Language is the poetry in the language of that. That is what we want.

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