What is glazed over for this will be obliged
to strip the veneer from its portrait.
It waits on the table, it waits on the hors d’oeuvres, it
waits on these petalled flowers in the tissues
of the carried calyx. It
waits for the sense of nostalgia to losen, a
trembling in the leaves, a beguilement
that attempts to condemn the one
who attains ghost throughout, into
the imperishable adroitness of doing his part at the end. A beguilement of
the beguiler—thus we wait, beguiled
Road and wine. A new bottle is
carried in. The digital clock lights 1:48 in
to the morning. With the bottle we begin
to burn hotter—I am called The Climbing Cup when I am
the King, and I devise a march seven times around the room, the author
of the ground I pour from
until I am dead.
Time turns back on itself, isolate, a
different part of itself, consequent. Check the part
that kisses, then disappears. The
speculation of the kiss.
The kiss which touches and is lost.
The kiss which displaces itself across
this poem, and the little mark of light as it
chooses more than simple words. Is this like
the poem? The people? The
rest in abasement? I am demanded of the
precision of weight on this couch. The exquisite line
of your levers.
Is this the poem you seize, assize?