The following Vermeer references apropos this:
October, a Mask
(Somewhere in the Hudson Valley)
(Holding a brochure from the red-vest company outside Grand Central, speaker should read slowly and each line with a distinct emotion, in a well windowed room, early morning.)
An autumn does its best to prolong suspend outward anything like an obstacle.
Subsumed, the hands, the hundred handed ones, flourish their leaves, push clear.
For room, motion moves the present leaf twist away: time is making space.
The space for you there was only a season but exercised a forever.
Talk about forever and you’re bound to die, lie, same difference you re-enter distance.
To stay present she licks the paint of everything and recalls the soft flecks blown among.
Bound as fall assassinates itself into forever keep this beauty.
The beauty is permanent keep your thoughts to yourself, she said.
Give me a leaf to stand for me where it counts.
They offered me site seeing and I accepted in my heart I took their offer North.
A crescent hovered above like an open penny purse they stuffed the round copyist’s mirror in.
Vermeer painted this way until the mirrored image was hidden in the reproduction they stuffed it.
In a pocket of air, the monstrance of the missing, the present escaped, knocking around the cane.
Hovering over the coffee until it was cold you monster the cold flecks of forever you turned me.
I had to check the time, as one does, and found it camouflaged in significance.
(Each line its own voice, to be read in darkness or with the eyes closed until the fourth voice; to be played by as many voices as are on hand.)
Look unloads its keys the wind’s involuted brains exfoliate the cosmos how many times must I.
Keep telling you what what do you already know know me away from here this contingency.
Know what it might have to do with the word order order it to make me you again and stop.
We are all you, can’t you see the mirror is in everything now you were the first letter but forgot.
I thought I was the hundredth finger on the hundred handed one’s hand a giant turned into a tree.
You’re a giant idiot the giant is his long presumption his life is space he grows fat with time.
A thought a belief is only a turn, how long it takes you to turn around, a still day is hell.
A still day is peace and quiet I think you move by yourself and the others move with you.
The giants move their hands to make wind our motion is a zoetrope as denizens of the monarchy.
Our motion is most us the children dressed as the goblins they are today their disguised elders.
I preferred the Dutchman, but that was another tree, another seed, still the giants know.
The veil is worn thin between stillness and motion Mercury is on my spine this morning silver.
The Dutchman was happy with what he saw, he vanished the mirror to make it real.
There was never a single leaf how would you know if he was happy there was only light.
Ech, you know, what makes us happy, makes him, anyone, blue blood, blue jets, it’s light.
They say a silver lizard crawled into the sky and its lightning breath is blue fire on the other side.
The stories were all mixed in the ancient root-base, they confused Hesiod, the sap.
The giants are sense, common sense with their show-me’s shaking them against the confusion.
Other giants throw their hands in the air and scratch up the sky’s new windshield exasperated.
Giants are ridiculous I wish their hands could grow right out of their roots then we’d get it.
The stories say us everything ever is the giant’s DNA say your word but language is unused.
The mouths of voices deep in there carve our images in the air all that in our banter.
Like a thief, do you need to steal anything to be like a thief I say the roots the roots consume me.
Thieves have their hands cut off the trees are thieves but they’ve never been caught somehow.
I was on a train then in a cold room and my black soup turned cold I feel this most hauntingly.
We know everything but some things more what you know most you are most guilty of, bub.
Not the cold but that the heat had left its stamp he was going to start on Lucretius a bad copy.
“I say nothing could move forward if nothing would give way,” my modest epitaph.
He was looking at us like a Dutchman and the heat left because we were cold what logic is that.
Heat is aberrations it avers I’ve seen birds hatch right from the sky an apple quince at the sun.
I was once a furry little sphinx eating out of a lady’s hand I was blind once I’m still blind in that.
Maybe people are right to live in the city the chatter of the trees is maddening keep us out if you.
Croatan to the Englished ear, who can resist all the world’s stories you become us with our logic.
The world peeking in on itself Henry Hudson is still standing somewhere or eat each other.
Christ that was a gruesome child walked by how little they know insensible but we try our best.
We can talk but they’d have to pass through a mountain they’d have to pass through their own.
The skin of the world musky dreamy sense keeps them in their bodies large as the present but.
They can’t open themselves through it can’t whirl the strings of time yet only the few can hear.
I’ve seen them bury their heads and try to exfoliate their fingered feet I saw one juggle the sun.
Fools they don’t know we say last words and pump the sky down in the same turn put them right.
Put them right and they do their best to turn back they’re uncomfortable they cry otherwise.
The wind speaks through them anyway tourretes they call it and relieve themselves in secret.
Some secret I think someone’s doing it on us right now every time they do it it’s on us.
They turn from but we love the worst of them they secrete secrets we swallow their exhalations.
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