Bone-Filled Egg of Osprey

• All I want to do is hike with Earthgirl
• I fine-tuned Red Osprey, I'm always tuning Red Osprey
• I just need find my effing sticks and tune *them* with Red Osprey
• only after I tune me with them
• The word philanthropist is poisonous, or, *my* ethical problem with art museums (he
• types on evil empires free fucking blaaging because self-incriminating (he
• has said this three times) platform
• Maggie's weekly links
• The father of teeth 
• Virginia, upper piedmont and mountain, lordy

• Trumbo Hollow, me, goldenrod (for stupid I'm), AT stile, Red Osprey, Doctor Sevrin ears
• Photos by Earthgirl (for stupid I'm), you knew that
• The curse of moral purity
• I typed this sentence Sunday morning in the breakfast lounge of a Comfort Inn in Woodstock VA, the hotel tunes its breakfast lounge television to the Weather Channel, whether a Comfort Inn business decision or the local owner's who knows, but wise (it seems to me, reading the crowd in the breakfast lounge)
• Elephant
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links
• Their own approach to book criticism

THE ORIGIN OF ORDER

Pattiann Rogers

Stellar dust has settled.

It is green underwater now in the leaves

Of the yellow crowfoot. Its vacancies are gathered together

Under pine litter as emerging flower of the pink arbutus.

It has gained the power to make itself again

In the bone-filled egg of osprey and teal.

One could say this toothpick grasshopper

Is a cloud of decayed nebula congealed and perching

On his female mating. The tortoise beetle,

Leaving the stripped veins of morning glory vines

Like licked bones, is a straw-colored swirl

Of clever gases.

At this moment there are dead stars seeing

Themselves as marsh and forest in the eyes

Of muskrat and shrew, disintegrated suns

Making songs all night long in the throats

Of crawfish frogs, in the rubbings and gratings

Of the red-legged locust. There are spirits of orbiting

Rock in the shells of pointed winkles

And apple snails, ghosts of extinct comets caught

In the leap of darting hare and bobcat, revolutions

Of rushing stone contained in the sound of these words.

The paths of the Pleiades and Coma clusters

Have been compelled to mathematics by the mind

Contemplating the nature of itself

In the motions of stars. The patterns

Of any starry summer night might be identical

To the summer heavens circling inside the skull.

I can feel time speeding now in all directions

Deeper and deeper into the black oblivion

Of the electrons directly behind my eyes.

Flesh of the sky, child of the sky, the mind

Has been obligated from the beginning

To create an ordered universe

As the only possible proof of its own inheritance.