- 3
these days at the (green) table writing, hot day is unlived except maybe
as the drive
then evening's great shining
i'll write down calmly, how sharply i look at the figures walking across
the top of the alley
is it less beautiful to hear oneself say it out in simple lines
as i want to
i wrote passionately about the huge free impartial body of english
and kept writing, all the more, but with less certainty
it was part of a trace of a passage, at best
the movement from one meaning to another is a shift i feel spatially
i liked the image of working from inside rock to open perspectives
a prenate thoughtful touching of directions
if something grips
it is real, but don't stop there or assume knowledge of what literary
pleasure is
destroying the possibility of prestige
charm, value, ethic tactic & gender,
in writing
there's no possibility of getting it all but if the few traces are accurate
the rest will be accurately implied
feeling the rules i write by, those i refer to now, & those i remember,
as undiscussed, a space of charges, a suspension, the familiar unspoken
-
thinking by an emotional indication
placing
something
'writing within the hologram already formed'
in these days being light in light few clothes white
pink & red the image from
jumping off the bicycle beside plate glass
toward dawn riding up behind a man on roller skates swaying
his lunch bag throwing one leg after the other,
sideways i rode up near to look
in his face could see a nectarine in the plastic
bag, his laces left untied
raise hell between us
something
and you know what made them do it was curiosity,
they wanted to see what was inside
they
wanted to see her looking at her inside
yes
going further upstream
the mother has to know it. no one else can know it at that
age. the mother has to be there to know it, otherwise it is lost.
i as if bow in front of our finding the way to each other
then the sounds in bed & she dazed dressing in the closet
bowed over panting with crying
i say to stay still & take longer breaths
'i see it cut off'
a piece of meat like a slice of chicken heart being flung at an obelisk
it's in a (cellar) room with a rounded ceiling
tibet
am i the anchor in this world & she out on the end of the cord?
there is also a feeling that whatever i do will not be right,
wrong, will simply further the world of that act
today the quiet excitement, arrivals of
completions
patience (that it will go on being there) of the
saturday & sunday of luke's conception
i have to bear the not knowing you -
'i had to realize i didn't know anything about where you were in it'
- the
spots of the red berries of the rowan in the light that had no other color
-
hand
on the thin chest between the beginnings of the breasts
the small grieved dazed one
smal
grievd dazd one
smal head weighted with glass
in the two days yelling
'it's beginning to close' the
marvel of what can be said
the marvel of how much is not understood
the largest admiration
- a vacuity
of strangeness -
certain arrivals together
- sudden diving
under her argument to see where it's wrong
basement corridors
egypt in the fields west of the highway
room with a bed
rock
green
stone
the dead end
lost ditch
suddenly diving under her argument -
coming near to the present and leaving it
that i've been a long time collecting messages fr
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