the new vessel.
Dark/light of the sprung soul.
upward or shuddered
up-ringing, iridescent as a fountain:
wide open in sleep.
And on the kitchen sideboard
script pages, flipped over;
cut up into memo-pad size. If someone
note, turns it over--
there are the words, dialogue of
you once became or not.
Laura says she cannot command the
station alone any longer; can't
he see this? Brent says he knows, he
what she has been going through.
I don't know what these words are for—
I know you will arrive no more
to counter this argument You may
these things aloud. You walked,
you lay once beside me. Albert says suddenly
paper square: "Vague. Cryptic. Enigmatic.
Ambiguous." Claude says, "How do you mean?"
to enter every semblance of you—
profile, ideogram, rainlight, zigzag kite,
plinth. Even this comment
from Mohammed: "I should be going—
a private matter."Earlier; Frieda
has said, 'You're upsetting me, Ira."
consider this private matter in anger,
in terror; in reverence. Voiceless, let me
a thumbprint, a top-sheet,
margin shout Here's Marc crying, "Bullshit
a man live in any other time but
his own?" At the tombstone, the fire pit,
anchor dragged brain-red over
consciousness, Yvan says, "I don't see why
to put up with your tantrums." In
this private matter; I refuse the lilac, the
all the lit banked candles.
Rachel says he's in the middle of nowhere,
an alibi. Bring me no alibi.
Bring me instead one sprig, pale-white,
never-endlessness, one pulse-leap
inside the sick brilliant rose of your not-being.
says, "That's my girl" Fire-rose, ash,
drawn petalled, unpetalled, along my wall of
You hover; eyelit, at falcon-height—
and Serge cries, "Read Seneca!" Laura is alone
space station, weeping. I am not weeping.
I am emptying the pockets of my own monologues.
I am listening
to the semblances, what you were,
who you've been. 'You’re disastrously open-minded,"
says (it seems) to me, though I ask for
no feedback here in my space station, here in my former
where there is no gravity--or crushing gravity—
in my kitchen, my open mind. Where I
listen closely to no connections. To no you, David. No you.