It is in the periods of in-between
……..when the numb finger pervades and prevails and presupposes stoppage,
……..a malingering fiend in a museum of untouchable parts,
……..the fattest of hollow souls you will ever have seen.
……..He is it is we are all in the wearisome in-between.
And this is when no more writing comes,
……..the interminable exhaustion of a ruptured stomach
……..and a hollow head. I’ve forgotten everything
……..except my memory was called spotless
……..once, at the blackboard (or was it green?) in the writing of entomology,
……..but in another tongue.
……..He has it has we have sung
Already of our woes and our remembrances
……..in hexametered prose.
……..But we wrongly pretended to balance,
……..the height, the consummate star
……..of a lovely symmetry
……..that would shatter in our H-shaped houses
……..of walls and lights and words and shush.
……..He will it will we will flush
Uncommonly at the specter of embarrassment
……..that encircles our beggared and holy thoughts,
……..the hauntress of a meeker temperament
……..that never meant to step an inch, or four,
……..out of line. The turpentine
……..corrupted us all at an early age,
……..solving or dissolving in nursery rhythms
……..while we knew nothing of them.
……..And still I know but little.
……..He shall it shall we shall whittle
Our introductions and our arguments
……..to the very essence until they are ossified
……..and water-white, the epitome of filtration
……..in an Erlenmeyer flask. And how I long
……..for the sureness now of physics and reactions and numbers,
……..even of planetary bodies in umbrella galaxies,
……..when faced – I, a fragile soul – with the inevitability
……..that your poems, these poems are not-a-thing.