Readingwriting

Readingwriting

The end of the breath each stairway to hell

and a fast car every moon I ever said

shakes free from this new one the long stair down

to heaven shells upon shells poco a poco step by step

in the round of named things infinitely plant edges

step on the center there is no essence to the moon, Madame

so why do we give it so often what are we doing what yearns 

for completion what do you think the sun was looking for?

*

I can’t stop hearing Cassandra, don’t you know what’s in the horse

or was her speech normal as daylight while the weird spell

covered Troy. What Dante calls ‘the abstract,’ the thing in itself

never teaches us until it does, an obvious theology

armor clashing in the whiteness of my wall

the words respond to an appeal from somewhere else

and imagine for us what she means to say: real monks study trees

themselves spoken principles of the mind left unsaid.

*

Deductive mind and that’s all there is the pen acts back

reasoning in the soft earth of us some great work

to run across the beach at midnight our strange hasty writing

who writes it who reads these scared of the dark postulates

implanted in visionary outward mind, imagos on the beach

who could deduce themselves but god lost in the composition

readingwriting; no one around but Ibn Arabi’s angry peacocks

while the only visible exit I was folds quietly into the sky.