Imagine a book, a little book,
whose words are covered
one by one
with the smallest pebbles--
fossils imprinted, shale splinters,
slag and gnarls from fossick,
cheap sweepings arrayed,
a road of morse lines
step by step
down the page.
It looks like poetry, runs along depths
on the surface, slugs
of a text that is lost;
the instruction it offers
The words and their syntax
not to nothing
(for the lover of pebbles)
but to an irradiating splayed out
it can only be
+ It could say erosion of the book.
The pace of the traveller
slowed along the Hansel-Gretel highway,
given bits of scrap and cornbread
that innocent birds go after, given shiny pebbles
far too pretty for the story.
The easy exit does not exist.
The circumstance offers more.
She had laid that trail to have it get effaced,
in order to be abandoned
to the scrub of a dark wood.
+ It says erasure so cunningly,
mimics little words
brings them all to the a
or to the the of "be."
Can choose to investigate.
+ The wordless words
behind the blocked out words
can be more compassionate than
The pebbled lines are filled with otherness;
With only the speech of the stone,
they gain in empathy.
+ Deep ditch, road cut, folds of rock
propose a book of the unraveling voice
incapable and swamped
in the same time as the self.
There is a modulation of feeling
"set myself this meditation"
Imagine a reader, who would resist
and not resist--
hot silverline domes over the mountain--
resist each word
even the long night of characters, actions, choreography
which reenact her plundering defiance, resist
and still articulate the gloss,
the implacable sweetness
of the Stone.
Narrative sections contain instruction, include
statements about underpass and loophole
do this, do that, listen, do not
invest yourself beyond yourself
for you are
a representative of fire
in the windy hopeless cavern, a spark
unable to warm the dark but able still
to see its flaring cries
without light, able
to clasp the mists of loss.
There is a space, a ditch
shallow along the contours of earth
this bumpy knoll or that hillock
but deep enough to cover
for a couple of years,
until it worms out
its readable shard,
its hoops of unforgiveable bone.
Here to imagine the reader
marked by another ring of mark a / a \
makr, all that morganlongne daag dawning, of
for a meniscus tension of exhumation
swells the page--
fugue and segue, modicums of wander
for the locus
all along the shifting boundary
Childrenhad gottenup to the attic
hadtaken the boxedmemor
abilia and begunto strew
the past became
clutter upon clutter.
There was no order, no size, no year;
emotional response was totally mixed.
What turned up,
what had gone, where by accident something
was into another box. . . . And the book
of photographs no longer
fits here, once it was looked at,
thereupon put, or push, or pull it into, or
out of there. Thus the random recovery
of unresolved tidbits
can never be assimilated.
This is the condition of time, going forward athwart
no matter the "gifts" of shame, fantasy, and memory,
no matter the organic strangeness
This is the condition of time
stuck all over (Merzhouses of Tyree Guyton in Detroit)
with debris of
(Merzhouses of Tyree Guyton bulldozed)
nothing and everything
plastic tops from margerine tubs,
tin tea trunk
along strata of ever-disjunctive
folds, and smash.
without the rhetorics of pity
but not pitiless,
O ruisseaux, o bull of gold and
lapis, the tongue
thick with lyric and wine,
caught in bosky lute trees
caught for song, for song;
the charm that licks your ear,
webbed one way round with strings
and wound by
linen and pegs. To hold.
Pressured against. The wood
and sinews gut bound
leaned into the plectrum
like a figurehead
drenched by rose.
The bull plays within himself
at the heart of the labyrinth.
Can visit him dead
bask in his anger and the dirty light
and try it all again
trenchant call across the fosse
is it prophecy?
is it instruction?
is it mourning?
Whatever the genre,
let it "pass thru its own answerlessness."
Go stony book
Embrace the wraithe
not as demanded in foundational commandment
nor as refused in annihilating compleynt
but just in the course of things
casting oneself to the same winds.