Tuesday, April 4, 2017

2,3

2.
I heard
cosi, thing
Donizetti’s
I want to
in the soft ground
Roses of Sharon
is how I say yes.

Cuarto creciente
but all month long
is violet. How could you
accuse me of style
while I’m still asleep.

Little flowers perk up
Siberian squill
at your presence
ink just barely dry
in the dusty tome
our mothers write.

There is effect
and nothing else;
the woods weigh less
without me in them
my science, my measure
substance intellectual
the organic contribution
us immortals make.













3.
Your nothing and my nothing
only the skin of things
keeps us
from each other
those whirling wheels
behind the sky.

Dream
here, this thin meeting
word to be devoured
whose skin too
in the eating 
gets spoken.

This skin
my only argument
the closer
to bone
to none
the less truth

the more yielded
this lie
I am disorder
false door
of dream’s
random adventures.

“No such thing
as random”
another hexagon
has entered
language
the house

its schematic
a trestle-board
devoured
into this 
projection:
six-sided room
somehow

a metamorphosis
of the distances
the presider’s
senses
sense
in us

officiate this 
refinement
of the plant, 
where they call 
my thinking 
matter.


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