Read in Rilke
The icon that is the other’s weave
a bent stream the woods has.
And the little lights in speech break out
twisted crowns in the wild.
The people are as bright as gold,
this language that seems to know her
in the fire of its machinery,
swollen down to the ground;
where luck is not contained.
The earth is homesick. And red ladies
whose coins and whose wheels shudder,
are in the incline they form against
–this is the fabrication we mentioned
word struck from its margin
the throat garden’s little mountains
pull up their stumps and saunter away.
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