34.
Read the wooden things first and see how you feel
curator with no walls more words than you can say
giants crouch among the stunted trees
instructions from the silence
don’t be fooled by the naked mountains
everything has somewhere to be
my poor Babylonian conscience
I had to follow the law to be rid of it
the same wind on a different evening just ask your hair
hear the voice and write what you see says the concordance.
All I do is translate, broken cages humming opposite winds
because I am the one who only writes other people’s books
because I feel nothing, or everything
because I am a curse, a door ajar
a Pendle witch someone who rhymed on the street.
Passion of a settee in an uncurtained play
because the drama of belief has no opposite,
because a man who drives into a tree can never say what happened.
Because therefore is the still smoldering ashes of cause
howl of angels slipping out of time
dressed only in the jewels of my ruin.
Because garbage night means the sunset takes my life away
the human universe which needs no humans but something else
nothing that is not nothing tablets written by no hand your hands.
Because reflecting a lost supposition, a stone
you hold up to explain: heaven at the beginning of every sentence
pouring back through all the stuff that makes a garden.