(Lipogram: (E) of John Ashbery’s “Summer”
By Allan Hill
At hand is that hum, akin to wind
Recalling not that in particular limbs of Gaia
Not a soul can transform. Plus at hand a somber “soon after,”
Whilst you think that what you know a past’s worth is, with laying it back.
For now, spirit is abundant
Almost, pays no visit, split amongst shoots of Gaia’s ranking,
Particular braids of a woodland, parroting a soul’s division
Among us, also amid many not of Gaia.
Also starts points of contraction tags behind
Our look into our mirror. Abruptly, our last hour
Is not a tiny or trifling thing.
Simply draining, agonizing passion.
Plus with trivial monotonous compositions planted on
Our whimsy owing to our story: frolic, warm frolicking light plays upon Gaia
Our lax lots rationing our conducts, by way of vacant grins,
Passing on mutual commands skillfully as is
Too tardy to abandon now-as the passion withdraws, chirping
Of distant worlds in its cold dark vast umbilical, so as to portray
By way of obvious motions
This now and is’ of dignity, finally not a monster
Frolic has to do with a vacation of ‘is’ in a way akin to a nap in a warm bath.
On a way to a thin outcrop on top of Gaia’s living liquid,
An abstract principal’s mistrust, it?
This calming of starting again, particularly fair prohibitions,
Was it with faith whilst you finish? Plus its’ air is similar to you,
That reflection in Gaia’s living liquid.