but if it wore time, would it disappearisn’t visibility an effectof transvestism, that shield pastime whosecrosscasual aim unmasks the eye: must youassume the costume of the other tobe here, to present the sense with an ess. . .Narcissus saw his guise decked out all ruse,but if there were none, what would our true clothesconsist of,…
As much as a person could die in one instantA lifetime–
a crash program begins: we fill rocketswith wheat, smoke-rings, razorblades, then,after long aiming–they’re off. Hulls specially alloyedso as not to melt before the stuffgets delivered we pour cattle rivers windmills,aborigines etcet into the sun whichhowever, grows stubbornlysmaller, paler. Finallyof course we run out of things to feed the thing,start shipping ourselves. By nowall the planets-moons-asteroids…
To pose nakedness isTo refute it. A poseIs a clothes. LikeStanzaic arrangements ofThe word which shouldIdeally, be in pain againstIts w and its d. No slackIs why such heaves of orTo denude itself couldMake us exude gold, yet whenWas that ever opposite enoughWhat scream or epigramThis sperm has comeTo measure our mouths for.Note: For ‘or’…
and that act enabled themsomehow then to reach the groundwhere they scuttered round our feeturging the latter to unitewith a baton as if that acttogether with the hands can claspa dowsing-stick cut from the samebranch from which we launchedconverging on gravity’s purge-pointat which point we merged to removeall consonants from our star-maps.The infinite consists of…
Its brass plaque depicts an oxygen eyein which two pupils of hydrogen dance.Downstairs is where I lit fires whose insightswith approach-velocity froze me, thensinged off into flame. This always happened whenI came close to a truth. Months passed. Years. Nights.Shall I accommodate myself again,a humble aquarium of lordlythumbs, some fin de species? Of course each…
The building above a bunch of gawkers perchedAlong its ledges urged me don’t, don’t jump.
hate to record—all those old code names, dates,the standard narrative of sandpaperthroats, even its remorse, fall ignored. Faraway, a late (not lost) messenger stares,struck by window bargains or is it the giftof a sudden solicitude: is she going tolift up her shadow’s weight, shift hersonto it? She knows who bears whom. Inthat momentary museum where…
The sky depending in which directionOne’s eye strains, each of its swatches a strangeHue which dies too soon and which makes this hourLinger in the mind transient as a life,Whose names once known remain anotherPosied-up portrait on our palette knife.Until even I wonder if one tintEver survives the harm of seeming unique(Evening’s intrigue, time’s singularity.)Study…
