Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Word Made Word

What is the show? What makes it whole?
Perhaps it’s like the rain, or sun, or snow,
or fog – a sort of meteorologically
unavoidable phenomenon of doggedly
determined soul – evincing temperature
and wind, humidity: tactile haptic certainty –

a palpability that adds to actuality – finding,
filling absence – insisting it’s as indispensable
as air. But now I look and nothing quite like
that is there, or here. Or rather, what I feel now –
what I now discern as real – is more elusive
even than a propagating atmosphere.

The darkest curvatures of night retain a seed
of some full panoply: ready always to incite –
and germinate inside the womb of Cosmos’
eerie light – beckoning whatever whirls,
abounds, resounds, perturbs. New ecstasies
find words. Few nouns – innumerable verbs.


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