Thomas Lowe Taylor
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At the Margin 2


This is what fell across the day today. A white spear of torturous air descending,
the wind always comes at you from somewhere else and then goes on
white puffs of vegetable foam run across the sand in front mindlessly,
parallel lines of white and gray and brown and white and blue and brown.

Names are the night’s right, from cloud to time the stars between.
What’s not given in less internal rhyme from door to door against the blue
which leans into the edge’s mass from what’s within to other destinations outside
or not marked to these diverse claims you make for your own rote purposes.

A day would becalm its pages holding forth in their own styles too much
to hold you down against the pressure of the words themselves & ask
too much, their own styles given out like a formula or a set of tasks
to clear out instructions made on the edge of the page at the margin.

Your hand lies across the bed holding a hackeysack of green and white
which gleans particular from being let into the room, not against you
but held and firm, she wanders through the pastures of mind in a lesser tune
and makes the dance to round as if it had landed on the surface of your mind.

A dream calls you into wet lines across the front of what is seen and leaves
as you claim your stories from acres of wood and refuge along the tide
and marks the air between us not mentioned nor flavored from any absence
among other treasures left like signposts into unknown disturbances.

Matter clings to the side of the bowl, your nutrition in question as if stolen
from later airs they’ve clouded up the beach and harbor in these landings of light
defining the hour in what is sent for restoration or for an intent challenge
spoken not as some diatribe--the truth is what is called forward.
New, uncertain terms are neither clarity nor the color red--
inclement ridges furrow the plain, their waters floating underneath calm;
deciduous carriage hears the man with two noses dancing to a wild refrain
& clings to your hope that this will not dismantle too sharply nor too soon.

Future machinery comes into usage and denial of the time you spent alone,
not mentioned but still coming in underside the flattened coast,
a fragment out of place removing everything else from passion or hope
to cling and rule beside the hours’ motives in their common field.