I’ll pine and flower. Cones in light, cold and bright, pressing on pressing on hours. In twiddling song, silent and strong, water, moraine and boulders along. Tumbling, tumbling, tumbling to, tumbling to a picture of you – of me? – of you, of daffodils true, honest to image and wedded to blue – to blue? – to blue! And I to sky – in puddling lie, I cry, see you, vertiginous truth, all is reflection and rocks turn aloof – looking at looking at looking at you – Reader, I feel and am breaking, shiver and shaking, quiver and quaking, sliver of silver rills to slake river. My roots down to bedrock, drinking the hemlock, dangles a head dripping down and downer. How to get out of a pondside gloom? How to rush quick, like logs in a sluice? How to remember, pines to ember, the grandeur I once saw in you – in me? – in me, you’re right. Yes, it’s true: I’m at the peak of my eyes gone askew – aslant and sliding, there is the silence, spying on me as well as on you. There is a me, but there is a way, away, aweigh, I say.

“Man thus puts himself in the place of the statue as the shape that has been raised and fashioned for perfectly free movement, just as the statue is perfectly free repose.” -Hegel, Phenomenology of Sprit, § 725.



Rollable boulder.



Tabernacle of template body.



Burnished rock.


Form: Panegyrically
Form: Apotheosizes old me
Panegyris
Form: Spirit has joined the chat


Form: Negation
Form: Kenosis
Form: Kenotic
Apotheotic old me
Form: Kenosis is with us always
Kenotic, catharsis adds
Form: Cathartic adage


Form: Expression is empty, extrusion is not full
Form: Lapidary
Flint: Rock, mortal sparks
Form: Forge


Form: The waves that will
of clay a puddle
Form: Extra foot
Form: Forsaken head
Forsaken eyes
All the dregs
Sacrificed

Form: Rise
Form: Rise, rise
Form: The word to flesh,
not art bread-baking

Sturdy curvature we thought was a tongue, or a slide, was a

panel to a lost shell. No shark’s teeth for you, nor me, nor you.

An oyster house. Spartan couch n shelf. Back door whelk barbs.

Black knobby cabinet that could hold a staircase. Pockmarked

old motel, decaying but was once for a family. Lost it. Found it

again but vacant. Was full of good people peopling that’s good,

that’s good people found a favorite wormy sedimentation,

petrified Coriolis worming. Pinks. Scepters, diffuse map of red

and oval cream. Drill bits. Conical comet-trails. Umbra (u in

black, clickable and thick, sturdy but small too, worn in a U). No

shark’s teeth. Could be hair or many-legged legs in black fossil,

brown seeped into the ridges. Thick clacking black shell. Think

front that lied but’s gone in the back. Barnacles grump-clump,

crown clam. Gunmetal whelk barbs. None. Warped

modulations, turbulent black waters made to calcium. Ridges,

scalloped broken bit. Smooth and fanning to treacherous

ridges. So I stumbled into that loss, a trench.

In thick turgor pressed out
flew out formed worm
out, out flew whole
and slick, warm and thick
from a hole greased log of
mischief foisted forth in fun
and back to forth in glottal
gurgling burble—
flapping maestro—
out, shimmied out from plush
cello swaddling low and
out, wriggles out the
maggot botfly belly-buried
burrowed and hidden, you
nutriment-filch, you
house-wreck: out,
Wretch! Flop and writhe
there, animate tumor,
spread—no, disperse—no
poof, cue cymbal &
fermata.

Gold sun, eyes gray.
You: we’re in flux.
It is autumn, I say.

Melty at touching. Me away
from you the breeze sucks.
Alight my back, bright ray!

A curling leaf to stay
from branch the wind plucks
in autumn. (A sway).

The twisted timer belts a bray—
noise of work a ruckus—
It is. Autumn assay

the light in a day.
Winter fix you what bucks.
Circle fall you, foray.

Lips you in waylay.
Mind you who mucks.
Gold sun, eyes gray:
It is autumn,
I say.