Pounce
Delightfully sinful, as ever,
a word goes out into past-future-
speaking as if to shore up remaining time,
weight holding to phonemes—
can you buy another block of terrace for my terrace?
Or will you follow?
(You’re always smooth.)
Plausibility mistakes
an interim for
another side of a disaster,
but kissing is always nice,
fucking is better,
Bible far away.
You could pretend that
words don’t matter,
but they’ll haunt your chicken ears after you’ve spoken.
No need to promise:
a flag is down.
You’re always smooth because wanted,
a set of gesticular crimes,
and after that, coolness fades into
a new sort of emptiness here.
Spring is not a windstorm, and weather soon fades
but no one needs to play Spiderwoman or
pretend that what’s caught in layers won’t thin out.
You bring a new pillow
for a road, for each road is a journey
as has been said and is not entirely
repetitive (unless it is).
A new sort of actual:
portend day back into wanting,
waiting, maybe, for
a chance at nakedness with another
(entirely spirit)—
write a new caption in
if you dare to tell a story
of happiness and unfulfilled longing.
(A century’s a cliché.)
After singing, happen
to happen to one, again:
don’t let this world flummox
what’s left of your better part.
you can breathe
you can become
as if saying a knife
is a euphemism for cutting lace
which you might have from time to time. You say
bodies
are broken
by their
edging
and you believe, but only because you
felt poetry’s time here,
and was only broken by a first cut
continuing in silver crush
adumbrated by all markets
recognizing purely itself
(themselves) as if held up high
elucidating atoms
strings of your discontent
strength of your maelstrom
ribs rubbed for extra verve
In a hollow, this world is always the same
(dear poetry: fuck off, or else take to the brighter plane)
(you’ll call again)
String theory of your discontent, satin
plaited up around tussles
makes for a holiday
but not for long: until
there is light in all places, a C
will remain content to be and let be, again
as if saying that industry matters
for a few, until you get it back, here
where moon is full
A C content to be is
subject to a knife of industry, once more
because there was light
that needed to be tamed by you
needed to be tamed by you and others
and in an intransigent form (of light brigade)
people abandon meat for starfruit
reach into them
for a slice of kiwi or orange
sun of a neck’s a throat
waiting to tell its story
outside helium
of signs in which it was born
(but never eschew a clearing)
you wait for a new tree to hang in
outside a visible sphere
like becoming blank on land
like becoming narrative, for
a disaster awaits (for pouncing)
a panther is not afraid
a lamb lies down with a lion’s end
Lion again, and he does not know what
he saw before he had been made she
a knife awaits late arousal
(you swim with animals beside)
You wait for
A lion waits for a lamb to return
Industry, temporary
Industry, dispensation
You wait by a mountain for
you to sing
(No one comes to a fire escape)
(The birds are at their highest)
No one thinks to thwart
birds and bring you back to earth
this world keeps getting dark
Ideal is still an image
You write recognition in salt
You approach a field altogether
(one man leaves off, to leave you)
Ideal is still an image in afterlife
where knives first got grounded
You used to own a knife long ago
You used it to cut a neck
You cut a neck from a sun
You were a devil’s glass
returning to earth
You owned a knife from stations
It was borrowed by yourself
You cut into water
and now you love water
but you’re no lake
You are a ruffled surface
melting into grains of sand
(Are these grains of God?)
(All these bees rush in
but a Cartesian move awaits.)
Filigree is
a greater proportion, of knives.
Your greatest undoing, here.
(That you bought a knife.)
(As if you’re waiting to pounce,
you hold a door here.
You wait for nothing.
Sky removes sky.
A is not equal to A.
There never were trees.)
Tell
who you love the best:
was it a curve to an apple that once held you there?
(You have only questions:
How does a dog
elope with God of questioning,
and how does a questioner
become sincere
in a dome of questions?)
So perhaps this is two, then,
subtle changes of a future
becoming no one’s
answer to a new obsolete,
as if held in a futurespeak.
What a clock might say:
remove an H from the skin of your body
and if something still remains of you
you know you’ve done things right,
but not off to the right
or off to the left, then—
you have to hold on to those that you love
without a pounce of an infinitive
(You ease into a split
infinitive for now)
and don’t be afraid to try
Love of consolation is
not a consolation prize, or
an edge of a bird
and love of consolation is a verb
made manifest by pure nouning
of a book
There’s none
who can say
what’s in it
Love of a good book
is what will keep you poor,
but don’t let this keep you from loving those you love
(You could make a music into an absolute dream)
(Poor lover)
(And each night as music fades into salt
there is an awaiting, for
this world’s almost as soft as lace)