O you my butterfly, my love:
Do you see there the sun so clear
That hangs in skies enwrapping all?
And that is only one of the images
Conjured from the living anecdotal
That springs from what is random…
But now the clouds, at random
Turn from white to grey; my love,
Let us take shelter in what is anecdotal
And converse until the sky is clear.
Shall we talk of quick-passing images,
Or relax, and say nothing at all?
See! the rain now drenches all,
Yet that pitter-patter of random
Pearls on that pathway of images
Is a music delicious as your love;
Free as a rhyme, and certainly more clear
Than the words circumscribing the anecdotal
Raindrop-lives. And in the anecdotal
There is a comfort, as if one and all
Were born to reside in it—crystal-clear
As the prediction-orb—ordered of random
Collapse. And when I live your love
I see from unborn eyes the images—
(oh! what images…)
Scrapings of lies told as anecdotal,
Fuelling these entwining streams: our love
Runs like a river of song, and all
Around us, nothing can affect this random
Joy, ringing out carillon-clear!
Enough of my ramble; the sky is clear.
And the azure-mint rush of images
Fulfils the gaping mouths of all-random
Hungers. The wind blows. Anecdotal
Retellings of things seven-times removed, all
Lies, all lies! I frolic in our love!
And I love you, oh you, so clear
Of all my thoughts—forming images—
And images are anecdotal, so fall—live the random!