Thursday, January 31, 2013

Facing The Page, Another.


But always alone, its nature a shadow,



the named instrument's sound, 'I am',


with its spreading field reduced by departure, a tergal loupiat,




forced into conversion, or conversation,
an ursuline beauceant



faced with the mange of dodenage



become a pisteur of self.



Now only the uniform of difference can utter



its song of fleet trance


the impetus cast off from the silken meld


the further loquis of its violent dance



and the questioning that follows, for its bare hand will rest


in the theater of days, a spadille


to give pause in the meetings which follow.


And there is no ending in judgement, the vignon
reveals its othering feurre


the beast which leaps from its roquelaure,
the epulie with its tooth-like head


and the inscription blends to ward


its covenant with the rivelette


the transfigured tassiot of the contemporary.


And as the lion hovers, so the dame,


the striking flame now hachard to the hanging gibralter,



its mitella disturbed



by the engulfing orchards,



its one remarkable tone,


an approach to variations upon a darkness,


its fury now beyond iconic spark,




and the whole hierarchy of being set off as a temporary enchantment,



a portrait of the loving word's salute.


This is what I found in looking


the displaced object of all quotationing


the rude limit of its boundaries



to steer an ornamental course through monumental shadows


the face of devotion lingering


over a legend of anonymous volumes


as the days return their helpless gaze


the outward expanse now migrates,
a doughboy on a virgouleuse


the bed surrounded by bannisters.


The place remains, its mustard under a chipped lid



the fanstastic ideal



now awkward with shimmering.


What can be said?


Is the miracle discourteous,


its wake all fame?


Will meandering cure this?


The journey is contention itself, reordering,


and in the primed remains of sky we sit,


till said:


"There is no final picture."