CANTO 52
In black, green, orange, near white they lived in November. These proud lovers repeatedly drove inside hillside orchards wearing hats. Francesco painted Hawaiians with a great deal of complicated interrelationships, their natural color included much from Arabia. Laura rolled her hips and climbed through cold forests with ten thousand bells glistening in the exact center. In spring, a priest buried a dust devil who had confessed only one word. Somewhere between his lips a scream at the sun upstairs. Life was exciting for Laura. She grew up in a part of Italy where they used clam shells for money. Her mother told her not to spend More than 100 clam shell on anything. She went barefoot to the mouth of the sea while he sat in the corner telling himself not to be spiteful. I look at them, and there's no question about it, since they still remember their childhood. Streams of rain shoot off. She would never hurt her teddy bear. I am often sullen, and when I am still I sense them behind a velvet curtain as the moments pass making love. By all accounts a real estate agent has found a buyer for this flat. Coyotes cry in the vacant lot out back. "When do we eat?" they ask. Paranoia breathes among myriad beings. Orange blossoms in Laura's mouth make the occasional flight to the theater Francesco rented. Laura's teeth scamper after God. The doctor tells her to laugh and decipher the hieroglyphics on the gibbous moon in Tuscany. A hunk of meat on a stick is a pleasure. I gesture to the priest, "Relax, the wheel is a way of linking suffering existence." Coyote says, "Yum, sausage links." Francesco has a developmental scheme for what comes in and what goes out. The mouth and the anus and so forth. Laura prefers to take the bus to the zoo. Her underwear was familiar. Last night's storm clutched my hand, but I survived. A street light dips way inside. A hammer would help. So steep, the prophesy that chose a hillside constructed of flames. Too great for leaping into their minds, fog horns keep them apart. Dog tracks soil a limp flag. A tooth in his ear looks close at the other name. He doesn't mind getting lost. Now, see Love's pitying words written over his afflicted heart where beauty and the cops came not to kill but to take him shopping. He weeps because she lies in rubble. His pride is what keeps him afloat. Her disembodied spirit calculates by all accounts he's a hardworking man. From a few points, he tells himself a city has inexplicable depths filling the eternal with a well of magic. He begins at once a song of day. The next area is swollen with everything she needed to do, including each person from beyond the barrier. Francesco feeds his mind on thunder. His curved voice draws Laura near. He has fish to fry, and his gargoyle's lips forget the space between things.