In the eternity required of dirt to ruin the dead to a dark that will erode
light (the sediment of which is the stuff birth’s the spoil of), with death
those deathless are born into it, for these embryos, by sex, swell into
leaves of death—black, not green in this promiscuous emptiness.
We, who copulate, seek to conceive life of the dead, & we (the dead) seek
to conceive a god’s death for what else is an embryo pregnant with?
Blue Eyed Grass
as might a womb that excites a God who conceives a tomb for rapture, sex
is a way to exalt the dead—those who are raised up by organs of excess
& in conception capture by sperm & egg the entire effort of the everlasting
Of the buried worm & of the sudden puddle. The prokaryote’s pilus. What the vacuum grows into & mountain geraniums grow out of. An excess in the fallen raven. That penetrate the ecstasies of soil. What funnel weavers learn from. Of the cricket’s remains & a red breast’s appetite. That cradles root caps. Of carbon feculence. What the sun will arouse. In rain’s waste & absence. Of seeds & their forthright treeness. In sac fungi's perithecium. Of a deity’s putrescence. That penetrate the excessive, astral dark. Of the wind-thrown pine & forthright immortality. In the gut of birds. In the bowels of termites. The oily bladders of slime mold. The despair of philosophers. That vultures envy. That makes space. That empties the Milky Way. That the dead ravish because the worm has faith.
Just as there’s a budding river above every sea, there’s an ovule of dark in every seed. Its radicle seeks the humus daedalea of immortal trees, there by the river of death, flower of the everlasting.
Water is the pollen of light for the sea is a flower & a fly is our sun. Ovule in the nest of petals? A fertile valley.
In this sapient welter we have abandoned the involved way & increased beyond excess, levying braided rivers, pivot-irrigating deeded prairie, wresting from complex soils surveyed monotonies, with little of decay to accumulate, little of the ruin to make it everlasting, with little of the love that over-grown places thrive upon,
the enduring residents that evade our presence, despairing their influence while we deprive ourselves their ignorance which is how most are conceived, how all are evolved, every one here in this yard egged by the grasp
of those who have felt the waste & force of a long absent rain; those who have touched the worries of voluptuous grass, the "diddling" of star dust & the disclosed earth that will devour us; those who have touched 
the aggregations about pores pregnant with emptiness, the web & appetite binding most of what we live upon, the pollen root & penetrated sac, the aroused worm, the suns that swell sex & make a thousand swarm; to know that we will never know, but to touch each other & tell of the intimacy, of all this generous ignorance that wanders through all this unacknowledged ecstasy.
What will be egged is first pregnant in touch which bodies the thinking that dwells in abiding ignorance.
Seek it in ignorance to know the delight in what will be found for desire is a way to remember what it will become. 
Memory is the discarded integument of light.
