Monday, October 20, 2014

A Possibly Serious Poem


"Then the composer isn't privy to anything." -James Tenney


so for up now
a potency out of grasp
an arabesque of wringing sheets
decent ascent gone amiss the descant
no parable in space the parable in time
no time descent but rise
what is noble in our vulture
wringing culture from the rock

and in the complicated fading
some scythes that murk the play
to twill no former glory
but the awe full glory that is
assize

a faint coo
its smile would wash the walls in paint again
and somehow a broken amphitheater
spilling down the mountainside
and no mind claims it
but verity calm leans into
the home of the nodding spectators
one at a short line and one at a long
and somehow they touch hands
to the strange taut string that binds the sound
strongly to the place

the huge hollow human heads
so for up now
whose holes would flute the wind
upon the string

anything you see or feel or know
bird rise clipped to the arc
and in the rising room its whole

the whole empty purged
but for ruminant furniture
and grace awakened
awakening

a warm silk breast
to echo its sun
a cold depth clinging
to the clean ire
at once
and always shedding