And Self-Identical: Mode

Nothing was done, things just
Flowed by
And I was washed, parts of me
Cleaned
Away others farther than I can recall.

A bird opens its heart to the wind
For instance
And subtilizes across rare geometries
Of squares
And diamonds eschering their latitude
, Arrives
(Finally when the sun) round the globe...

This is the back and forth of time:
Superficialities
Of sunset, since shadows everything
Grows.

When are you going to speak in sentences,
Poet?

Putting a foot directly a foot, I feel no
Air
Compulsion by infinite spaces between

(Z)

... - Since everything is the same.

Cavity

Lives with the pain in a soft
Spot, part of the body
Fallen into disrepair, that is what time
Breaks,
Like machines when the pieces
Grind
Becoming unbearably tender,
Casting them off,
Accidents are natural because things because people
Down to a
Pulp…

1. Given also something is not given in the given:
2. How do I know that this was unsatisfactory I never felt before
3. Pictures either fading or sounds rubbed raw so natural

Until -- you need you cannot --

C. This always that never was. There.

Privation

There is the anger, more
Derived to less, the overlooked
And possible validity of questions
Questioned. “For we who know”:
The power of possession,
What is held like family and food
No trespassing a home or sex,
“The beautiful things belong”
We, our own, since you are not,
Uprooted from the we, what
Was offered as an olive branch
Unearthed – no ground. Anger
Because the pain when certain
Words regard like scalpels soil
Savaged is removed ravaged and
Pushed. But I am not science I am not
A thing for you to know and push back
Feet firmly planted closing the door?
For past was undeniable love.

Absence

In the fog of a dead world wanders the ship,
Soggy swish of the swamp, it hits
The hard rock shelter of
Phantoms, mist.

Out of the grubby stumbles sometimes
Through scattering light in drizzles quick,
The air that swallows him, shade
Chaining ankles like a snake:
The prisoner of the pulse
Without a thought.

Thoughtless strobes
In images assemble,
Rippling sounds opaque:
The word wants blood.

So an ancient in apparition of silence predicts
Unheard whose many
Redound into one:

No exit?

But we were under the cloaks of
Vision; my son,
We were always here.

Things are always slipping on themselves,
Falling over the glassy countenance of their exteriors,
Expressing an outside that mellows and glints in the light,
And it blinds us and keeps the dark within hidden from our eyes
Like water keeps its secrets in bridges and automobiles.

If I could I would strip appearances with my hands,
Chew them off with my teeth or scratch them out under nails;
I think I would see something squirming underneath,
Earth-worms up-turned and struggling
Back through the dark dirt.

But how am I to go under a bright blue
Dish with paintings of pagodas and cranes
Plucking flesh from streams
In the forests of slivering blue?

Only in apprehension,
Held to the shadow of guests
Can the circle close
Over the steaming cuts
And colored sauces
Passing below the bridge.

A long line, thick stem bracing its leaves...

A long line, thick stem bracing its leaves
In the sway-fro, the red and the green,
And far a flash. Tree trunks travel the sky,
Gathering air around in purple patches
And a denim suit. It is a time for fingers
Punishing the scalp, holding heads,
And all the mysteries they trace, fingers
Over every appearance of air
Folding back into light,
Bodies of the green besides,
Touching the white walls
In the course of a different color,
Plaster -- solid, high,
Quivering and alone.

Statue Over the Sea

He held the world in its infinite closeness
Like a sphere into which he could see
The sky, the long line of the shore --

What were fingers to him? A body
Is a pillar in a temple,
One statue among rocks, mold

Truly made from a departing world:
Worlds that you hold when anxiety
Disperses like the waves,
There is the same froth
From which materials were drawn,
Ebbing into the vision that hides
Itself in crags. Sing one for the dawn

Because I wish I were among birds
When the first in an infinite series
Of lines settles over the body,
And the air opens into the sky.

Storm

Up and down, through alleyways of rain, wings,
Cocked head, spread wide, and the vane
Ripping in the wind while tatters turn:

The storm burns through the ferns. I feel quiet
Under the windows, listening to the drops
Patter their innuendo, resolve of a voice
Intoning certain grounds. Hear plants bend
A branch: they are ready to break.

They have been waiting their whole
Growth for this slow plenitude of motion,
And a cock is beady tears
Swinging to the north,
Bearing east.

Late Night

I regret returning to the room, coming in back
Among four walls to a fan that rustles
Round a mechanism making heat, and the yellow light
Their corners stain, the suit-case sitting like a lump
Below the bed, soft mat on a hardwood floor.

Soon sleep will come to lie with me,
I can already feel her fingers over my
Heart; while our gloomy eyes droop,
We depart like birds from a field.

Lyre

Because the inner force that drives on the horse
Of sentiment
(pax to pound)
Neigh-ing and heigh-ing
Fast along the ground, hooves stumbling the rocks,
Whip cracks, the air is so rapid:

When the heart gyres (the
Whole body is up in its paces,
Vital fluids absorbed)

In large eyes that hold you I would like to be stabbed
By stalacites.

Passage

To catch the brand while the flame still burns,
As if there were a celestial spark,
A great explosion of heat somewhere
Near the center, a burning star...

To capture the Phoenix in a cage
Solidified by sound, with a net as fine
And far away
As tiny stars,
Winking his plumes...

There is something burning inside me,
A process consuming
Air, hiring fuel, a flame I tend
Then photograph,
Attending in the memory of the mind
To the vague, stark outlines
Of a thing.