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!


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