Paul Baumann

Paul Baumann Poems

The Best Poem Of Paul Baumann

Taste Of Your Mouth

I can taste your mouth.

A country of mummified spirals
knocked around in by adventurous breathtakers
sitting on their hands, stupid,
so that their hands can't find the knobs in the air like this
spinning cocoons like these cocoons-
livid, and rigid-
like lost glass that again appears as air or knobs
tasting in your mouth like this,
the clear fruit that stays news like your own spun
clarities, like the dead winds lain low by your own spinning
of the cease-and-desist groves of orchards of remains of fruit flys
that are like clear specks, or transparent rice grains
like the seeds of syllable that you planted in my own ideas like this
spinning out on glare ice in Wisconsin after the ice age departed.

I am not seeing through you darling girl mutton
what would I see through you, or toward of you?

Black could have been as clear as this pane of talk.

I saved for you a shard of the broken.

Every list I started leaned over the same direction as you do-
every item on that list listing like this, baked into this transparent
language is air and air's own advice for people
wishing to own rocks, hardballs, thermals of glass,
rigid extensions as additional movements, circlets or curlicues.

Regret has its own circular habit, I've noticed or noted, notating seems squamous
or salad, sold, solid, calcified, quartzine, quartzold, quartzish
retold layers of rescued breath that squash together so nicely,
a sandwich of air in air's layers that are more temperature-differentiated,
or more direction - differentiated, as passengers of cruising altitude vehicles note-
how the palmpsests are crested at odd angles, this item approaches in that layer
at this angle, best known or established as over and against
the way that item suffers over that way, ceasing and desisting, or continuing-
depending. You see how the smoke rises in February in Tennessee there-
skyward- occluding slightly the stemlike and raspy section
of landscape, a slender and moving, swaying escape made
dramatic here, and how that smoke column abruptly levels
as though hammered out on the surface of a transparent,
apparent anvil, flattened, turned in direction leftwardly, toward the east
methinks, seeming to come between this and that section of clearness
parked out yonder by observation itself.

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