I.
what does this mean:
that this destruction will be radical?
what does it mean,
when the idea of a gesture,
like a single hair fallen from the head,
becomes the field of a problem?
this impression of being seen:
the center of the spider work of facts.
II.
but the fact is:
your breasts are visible.
i imagine them as a feeling
in every mode of being,
buried somewhere,
hurried and rapid.
III.
inspiration does not exist.
in the mirror slighted, in its glistening
little cracks, dare not tempt God’s providence
by fire (as here in a photograph, as not funded meanings,
as a veil just half withdrawn), dare not forge globe of burning
sky distinctly out of literal (mounting not toward
morning sky) turning inside, dare not
in the here to dwell, unbent, unsinewed,
dreading the indirections, provoking no echoes
the barren heath, the bleak moor
(in pertinent gratification), in this rage for order,
this rattle of a globe to play withal, all this, all this by
razor’s edge (this minute of error) plaguing my tongue in the need to speak,
softly threading inward as hope is, as nothing but the wind can become,
renunciation of the simple gestures (all these various materials)
in the departing light, uprooting like a film negative
even the laws are vain,
made even more melancholy (without
kindling touch as that pure flame, as that great influence),
elemental strife subsisting,
groaning (clasping, twining) so clear
and longer yet
there can be no question, no nothing at all in
that remainder of reality (sorrow, shadow, nameless synthesis)
i grieve for that sudden petrification of fires (grateful coolness),
the taste of blood monotonous, deadening, fruitlessly striven,
kindling at their luster if i burn
but look to God, this saving grace of irony, this chapel of ease,
as a pensive sigh, as anything can be done, these forms pass little
by little into reality, a light without dimension, turning fearfully
like a bad dream (vain and hollow),
this menacing, this overwhelming heaviness of words decay,
there’s no further need to speak