unworldly and self-effacing,
their shadows sliding on the verge in smooth translation,
The root of a wild bearing
and the one with a shaky plow
Stars blow holes in the apostrophes.
the spaces where we take leave of each other.
alphabets. The indentation of this moment
the water walking
what tradition but palimpsest
my desk is my church
is true maybe I will be death
Maybe all dressed up for burial, and then I should
become body, the body moves.
while I’m writing, no more Writing.
back of the palms drawn to kidneys, kidneys aloof
that’s—no fault of mine, man
a man. How he could burrow, be swallowed.
war and light the same
where saddles keep their know
ere the volcano before comparison,
and “beyond the boundaries of light”
This gift, this which is the alighting
the remembrance of past joys.
my hands and the illusion of falling