bowling

i wonder why do they call it a bowl of stars? like, here i am, base of a bowl and looking up - and it is walled by pines and it is rimmed with foliage and then sky, space, stars, all that - i am a point of consciousness and my vision presents a clear convexity anyway, the shoulders of giants are broken branches each giant has many shoulders and they form a vestigial continuum time passes, from star to ground, like it's all stars and space and spheric layers and then - this bowl - from branches decked and bound with needles trunks ending here with mere pocks and bumps it's here, where ferns like me all shaded quicken in the remains of green and sparkling things then roll out tomorrow in cotswoldic meadows i pinch a leaf to see if it's real, i sit opposite a countryside pub it's so snooty, my friend back home knew it by reputation i reimagine it, for something to do i drink a lime and soda i think about cultivating a god-like perspective. approaching perfect love, perfect forgiveness.…