Friday, January 03, 2014


Light's machinery has worn the beam thin;
substanceless the time passed,
the wire so far from the source still humming
in snowy flesh, no buds in the air
the first stirring beyond patterned season
not yet arrived, a rustle
from the uncrossed mountain
picking at the bells in the ears
past memory of muffled birth, the tone rung
in a patch of sound over the earth
the wide road made white sunlit
laid out like a parameter of gladness
what the light is eating
what space is sending out of time

And so, sufferers, I am cooking a potato lunch nowhere,
the space-tunnel opens at my back
and I am taking you all with me in a blaze of
nothingness, then out the other side to teach
vaporous beings to walk and live, an orphan chief,
white bone face looking outward over
a parking lot, and the dull stars chafed by his dissatisfaction

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