34.

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.