These people, that tower they came out of, shedding its darkness—a
centrality was seen to move, like clouds across the moon when no wind is
felt, or an accompaniment to which no one played or sang. I’d love to
know what you were doing at that moment, having been upstairs all day
with the space between the notes, folding laundry, low water at the
beach, a sail behind the breakwater not touching anything else, and two
girls with long shadows in a fantastically wide and shallow puddle,
wider and shallower (“while it hailed in the orchard it rained in the
village”) than anything so temporary had ever seemed. When the water
failed to deepen, we lowered ourselves full length. Later I changed my
shorts below a towel and a man watched. A pause in the effort to clear a
space had again become the space, as hesitation moved the runner onto
the sand, and the phenomena of a phenomena seen a thousand times was
again being followed by the familiarity of an always newer (renewed)
sensation: how unlike the familiar events all days are, except this one.





The reader in the trees on the wagon, the point at which the sky and the
book disavow edges, fielding an open divide, is in its being over
increasing until the people are attempting to sleep between the bats and
the grass where the “night bugs” find them and drive them away. I knew
he was going to end up in jail. I knew the jail was going to surround
the meadow, with its motorcycles and cars lined up outside the
apartments, where he sat doing nothing despite three ponds and a bay of
the ocean within the realm of his freedom, expanded long since beyond
recognition or meaning, our repetitive physical actions, returned by a
stranger corn and wheat (every thought swims into and then out of focus,
in the book you are reading) grown by prisoners at the farm, reform
themselves around that void. No more certainty shines selion. There
aren’t any false feelings we must reconcile.





Brothers in a previous life? But if we took everyone’s thoughts
seriously, how many more would be sentenced to die? Coming out of an
interior room into the miracle of weather, the pair of hands in the
fountain turned into an eagle, disabusing us of the variable rewards in
a handful (how natural the word seems) of clouds marking their own edges
and the sun’s. To wear the year’s clothing all at once, might that
satisfy the truth? It walked by without looking at us, and I’m afraid it
is the appropriate word. Death was general over all the provinces, and
he could feel her feeling this to be part of her condition, cold and
terrible and full of belonging, and in his excitement let her sleep
while he rehearsed melodies from earlier in the conflict, before they’d
found their way out to the place where the map had forced them in. What
they’d done (the brothers) was slaughter a pig, poorly, until
ongoingness appeared merciful. Part of a fantasy was better than the one
that was more complete, “all-consuming” as the indices New York, Tokyo,
Caracas, Trieste, and the whole rest of the range that has come among us
to be known as the midlands, the place where things happen at something
so like their own pace. Into the pot of all successive seas, the sun
dipped like a ladle. O fall, where is your power to hurt us.

While David was seeing a ghost in the corner while I read the rage of
the man in Holderlin’s Mnemosyne while Henry was locked out gathering
the mail after the takeout had come while James was scooching down the
stairs on this bare butt to open the door to make the lock stop working
while Lisa couldn’t look at me reading while Phil was sweating while
Nadine wore knickers while even in the dark the snow melted while it was
the nicest night of the winter so far and while everything else refused
to join us or was refused entry or was a refusenik or was re-fused to
themselves like a dragonfly to a pencil and began marching again against
everything to be for everything, we waited for the sentence to collapse
so we might see what stood out in a hundred years when we could finally
read it, refusing to die, as good a theory of theories as any, refusing
death and life, joining hands with that ghost no one else saw. The sun
is a ball of fire and we can’t get close because it’s not true, it’s a
dear nuclear reaction. There is a touch of red among the blue and purple
have you ever seen them. What have we never seen? I don’t mean
simultaneity, coincidence, worldsystems, or subjectivity. Do I mean the
objectivity of amongness, people and things and their songs so rarely
understood by the singer? Among, among, the word is like a foot for the
bog or mud to suck. The cure becomes a disease, not worse than the
disease, a phrase that became a disease. We demanded more cures, to
repeat the slang he bears along the street, but as it’s likely to
endure, the rustle of banknotes also could be heard. Energy itself had
become a theft, people of the future, and the ghost stood out in his
fleeting, luminiferous purposiveness, buying neither the farm nor the
house, but asking the mother of the dead (memory and the muses), what is
this? Not meaning you and your mother are in bed with a baby and you are
the baby. Or someone like you and your banker are in bed with a moneybag
and the moneybag’s not breathing. When we discover the form of forms we
can stop dreaming of a factory that combines things into newness and
muchness, like a newness of muchness or a rustle of cure or an ill-made
folk-object of dominoes in the sun, a 2 visible and a 1, a 6 a 4 a 2 a
5. Numbers worth nothing are rhymes of songs. If we can discover the
song of songs by imagining the end of repitition and return — the action
of investments — , we can rustle the leaf in the dry brake into a pond,
then to our recorder with toodlehoodle poope As howlet out of yuie bushe
shold hoope, giving flesh to the ghost, and the ghost to the rest. It is
the strength of our collapse, like Holderlin’s list of the dead is the
real written mythic, it’s own not meaning and allegory. What is it of
what is it the head in the tail of the comment, afterimage of a zero and
its locks abundant around the donut, mythic fifties soft armature for
forming buns with bobbypins or forming the day around the shop that
still sells them, supporting a brooding lodger who works without pay for
leisures, sons and daughters we can’t tell apart as we imagine the
future of the grand permission and eject it.