Bell
The water needs a forder. Otherwise there’s no cutting through to something other. Other than the water. This could not brazen the sea to hold it hard, but the cords that attach us to something could, making this a kind of bath, a voluntary dousing, and not a liquid urging that is animal. We have to decide on our forsakenness to become smooth and hard as a rock that drops, that drops into the dark.
A welder needs the weather. A welder needs the weather so that the white flame of his decision can occur within a climate; so that the omniscience of this occurrence can incise itself upon the dark surface of distant space, where the truth of all light ravels within its own seeming deconstruction to find it has been eventually inscribed. Burnt but whole on the netherside of a volute without sides, a volute made of dark, which is an annal.
Its folds ask for a hand. The cool rail too beckons. A palm is a surface of transmission, a screen. A palm is a writ surface, which is only evidence, red as a hand. A palm does more than hold fast. A palm goes in and discloses bright jellies like the discharge of tomes. It is made to go in. A palm proves. A palm pales in comparison to all that rushes to surround it. That is its way, and the clement air doesn’t mind to be cut by it, for a palm is an organ of shooing. There’s the alteration; it’s made of pain. Its installation was against everybody’s will, but they are all dead now, and the fashions have changed.
A clean text is hard against the tongue, like toast well done, which is one way of accepting the doom of morning. A clot of residuals banks up in the mouth; this will have to be gotten rid of somehow. In time, a little softening. Not to bend away from a less delectable air but to find what hardens in it, or how it marks its very going as though a gong. A gong, that is, the grandeur and catastrophe of itself, itself which could be only this single peal and the hundred veilleties of its reverberations, but which can and will be more peals, each one an awful singular, a solid shiverer.
You
A night so thick a suet. Rub sand into its lips
Because I’ve got to feel it. The speaker is going to become
Alive. Darning the event.
She said
I looked up and was assuaged.
I carried to my mouth the ointment of the cloud that had ceased to
move,
That had ceased to pass over me.
I found a secret duct amid these floes of air and then they left off their
coquetries, their complications.
The beauty makes me feel it really happened
The sky had stars in it they glittered like calories upon the world
Energy of the night I upbraided innards that were mine own
In order to become you