When the lights go out on a peaceful evening, it is wartime. Who pulled the switch? Sometimes all he heard was water on sand and even the shiplights flickered off, the bulbs swaying emptily on their poles. The bombers always rose from the horizon invisibly after dark. He dropped a glass of wine….
So I went out into the nervous system of the air— Bearing beneath my lettrist overcoat my village The monumental city long ago breathed in And held Went out into the signal and static— Rivermutter steeplebell and traffic—net of noise Knotted by sirens Into the brutal red dream Of the collective—humming there behind…
—odor of hot stone, like a sibyl ironing, is it not so, her duns and indigos . . . odor of love sea ammonia —a licknut leaf diving out after boyish pleasures, as Apollo hung out whole days with Hyacinthus—jack-juice outlaws: one of them the green sometimes seen in…
Yesterday’s snow falling again and already. Falling steadily among the vowels, the tall consonants. Alertnesses scumbling among the cabbages. The eyebrowed jay named by a man named for a star. Stellar’s. When I say the word the pleasure happens on my palate and I am never the same person again. Smoke. Granular. Piñon. Clouds slumping…
No dark field in which to wait No collapsed building How nothing we did exists Like a hiding spot where all get caught So what and then to do or to imagine, When a beating sound exists Like a ticking sound Against ourselves, past the subject As if hearing a distant conversation It’s not against…
Widening line of light What isn’t inked (“the area of its competence A visit to the morgue at night? (Averse?) Traversed By the frame A hand (reaching in? withdrawing (From outside To lift (this sheet) Sheer homesickness—the text * Awoke a serial homesickness (the text) for a place you lived in—off and…
What is unremembered may be lodged she said a child may not recall but will act it out in play doll on ground face against tile see how he takes it by the hair by the foot by the tangled legs sweet mind made of tangled legs and a patterned dress oh…
Numbers scraping their heels all night in the attic above them. The accounting was necessary but brought them near death. Like a fountain emptying itself for the tourists. Couldn’t the woman in the restaurant in the booth in the semi- private room open her shirt? In one view the numbers represented his errors of…
Was wir nicht denken können, das können wir nicht denken; wir können also auch nicht sagen was wir nicht denken können —Wittgenstein A bewilderment, his wilting sense of betrayal, a wilderness— he composed the history of his own privacy. If you can’t imagine it you can’t think about it; you can’t talk about what you…
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