Turt

There is a way to be curt with a field. The runnels of self-pity, the sludge of preponderance. I don’t use words aright, alway. I am dumb as a post. I mean dead as  a post.  A goat cast asunder a ship. The sounds come out wooden. This must be the sea left over. I went where the sea met the mud, the slag of the alluvial guts of some dragon-sing, the earth’s spit and image. So I am curt with the field, a-winter the shelved bark I gnaw like a scarab come home. And that is me protesting love. I mean into you a field of sound. Green as.

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A Mote to Trouble

The meaning behind the door is adventitious.
I don’t capably know what that means,
but I know the poem is unbidden.
It might be an angel or a mouse,
and only the latter might be swinging
a flaming sword. Who knows with mice?
It might be advantageous to be a meow
as well, Wittgenstein, behind a door of this sort
encountered in deep grammar, invisibly
unfolding within a place of talking, flexure
like a dragon’s knees or elbows. It’s not the truth
of a photograph, but rather the weight
of an apple in the hand of the mind.
Of course, there is a phantom hand,
or how else would you know what an apple’s weight
feels like when not an apple? The hand physically
before you is something else altogether,
the thing that holds a dagger, that floats you
down a talking hallway and cannot understand
itself but only follow, as Macbeth found out and so will you.