from Wild News

I was there then & I saw it in some way Or I was next To it, as one of many Open eyes with- Held in open air. & I could have starved to death Thinking I needed that As a ray of light & living nerves Is a fire the brain moves through Caressing the walls To marry that terror To certainty, to error a weakening sun. It makes me nervous To be inside of this story With you under this copper Sky from which a big blonde Ink pours reliably over the earth. & we would move in this As incarnate persons As immanence machines Dropping blossoms for human trees In this long moment of nausea In this harder moment of grace Wherein if the dead no longer Vomit they do still love To connect the edges Inside of experience Like little gods Who turn from us to speak From where in the future the past Takes place not Yet devoured, a cold blue Intimacy of throat & soft Speech. & I’ll have recalled this Awake all night & flagrant Becoming as snow that melts In the afternoon sun, & as in each puddle a spray of eyes Blinks back to me the prettiest Cawing gale, so the flesh Of the hands in the moan of the storm Is true, & set in motion Like some complete & loved Rotation of talk & hard sun & would imprint upon The visitant earth That heat & that compounding Sweet note Of florid rot Through which this light would run Which is the living meat Of April & the ghosts thereof. * Into something I ask to be melted. Into two languages Inside my head split with gold In the clearness of air. & this lump of red Flesh is distinctly kindred. & my toes are in the water, Where the long turn is Afraid of distance so pretty With hesitation. A pair of nice hands In all things is what We think tonight, From the inside Out where the soil in its power admires The thought of the bud That remembers & then is nervous To flay the wind. & figment Going further is motion, & the blue house With good reason diverges from My company, & space As if having kindled many fires In semi-invented Shadow makes no new World to so prolong. I would ask to be melted. I would so state facts As to make me that story Where out of some picture a line is born As a voice on a bus at night, Or a train In sepia parade, & let this knot of dread & quiet promise fall over every Inch of what the flesh would know In this weather of continuous Coolness & passing lights, Where what occurs to me Is a light that breathes & speaks to pass the night A bland & true Dream of where the words will go Of what & who my nothing Shall greet me with, believing it still Impossible & serene My image The thing that pleases My own paltry Opposite with throat & dark survey.