Aught, no. 11/12 (2003)
To that which
cataract’s blind brink streams as fierce as tautened
jaw guiding gladless eyes toward autumn’s light torrent.
all Protestant music, like all men praised and
then revenged upon, recognition, that strain of
terribly bland in its profound volume,
rises then blends, sonorous and deliberate,
an even measure, an impersonal
yet attached musing tone. To words that move alone
sheer inertia, nondescript in the slow ache
of worn leaves petaling water’s skin, so to
but then to relent upon entering
available although unaware, thus, sincere.
austere garments so that that thought may
emerge blankly minded in the lost verge and so
“Oh, gloss only parade, the stayed strophe of
particular pleasures—the spar and its like—that
crystalline unlike this sluttish world sharding
about in vain, inglorious, promiscuity.”
Copyright © 2003, by the author.
All rights reserved.
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