COLD LOST MARBLES

by itself is a brilliant fucking poem. First real loss before the clock means something.

The entire paragraph is in fact a single sentence and the content is patently poetic.

Besides ‘cold lost marbles,’ there are several other fragments of the poem found in this paragraph.

“When the world has been reduced to a dark wood to a beach I will find you filigree of trade winds clouds white as lace circling the pepper trees and overcast morning in July a taste of ashes floats on the air a smell of wood sweating on the hearth weather worn points of polluted water under the trees in the mist soaked flowers havoc of avenues mist from the canals in the fields shadows of boys by the daybreak in the peony fields coachmen and animals of dream cold lost marbles in the room full of shadows you can hear indistinctly the soft sad murmuring of two children on blue sunset evenings I shall go down the path little blue eyed twilight grins between his legs crushing the soft grass in a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet rose tornado in the harvest city night fences dead fingers a storm came and chased the sky away on Long Island the dogs are quiet in the gray valleys the clock of life has just stopped.”