POLYPHONIC #1-4
Husk of love
in a heel,
that sleeps
uncertainly.
This pain
is not great.
A black duck
says so.
You heave.
You eye.
You desert.
You lessen.
A jaw in awe
on an ocean.
With fish, each
With fish, each
brief thing.
THE SECRET POND
The woman in the water::::::
where she pivots into an unnecessary
shade ---myocardial, incidental, human
in the timbre of listlessness.
Fake and peck, elide this
mica hiding spot, with plurals
of things without singulars.
The venting of the nets is for whom?
I cannot order a brawl, an establishment of nails,
scratching for pentagrams. We have
spoken in hoarse hours about the
midway breathing of vegetables, and yet
the sweet trees teach us
of several levels of patience.
To find what in the damp palace,
destroyed like a humorless
county, where a crease comes
for all?
The present is anyway
wider than its survival.
The heart starts
like a dumb gushing lump, confused
by fictive time and false echoes. No
one goes when they are going.
There is a tarfield beyond.
To say the sky
appears is an appearance we
agree on. Like mice or vines.
