Buried under the heaps of the apple pommes,
The pomace piled on the path of rain,
And we were on the dim stones and bloodroots
And stamped, feeding fleurs de lotus;
The moon pardons in a red silence, a crying reverie,
And it hosts light; begot blue springs,
Buried under the flickering of its flower,
Frosty by the caged window pane, dark,
In forever a paradise by the wild shattered hills,
Upon the anointed yellow flowers, lighted,
To the shadow of the dream, afield in all senses.
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Pseudopsychosis. 