I remember the sun-burns
the near-drownings
the glory of my mother
and the white mercy of change
There was no forgiveness,
hearts taut, somehow blind
hope and hecate, foul fulcrums
pollutions of anticipation
We were borne by the leg into this world
dutifully torn by premises and suppositions
deft lambs in the heart of secrets
born and again born in bound memory
at first sightless and forever shaken
feeling at once doomed and proven
I can see myself presiding
over the carnal gift of paper
wraps and ribbons, chewing
on what must be a book.
I have lost the unpardonable gift
of focus on everything.
Still I entertain the notion
of a return to my first hours
sometimes forgotten, never allayed.
I have dark shelves in my heart
that hold too dearly
the trespasses of my vision.
Something was always amiss:
I know my beginning was spliced
to memories of a life that never was
except between two fingers on the page
In moments of pleasure I forget
the pitch machine will take me to my pain;
soon enough I come upon
the secret of its circle-crafting
deferential, slippery-forged
a world apart, gaming reason.
I see who you are,
who hide in the mirror
behind the mask!
You are not so terrible
as I came to believe!
My time dilates on your time
you are not yet focussed
giving preferrence to another
vision of how it began
How can I forgive you,
exfoliating in many imitations
bestial and brave, cut by hope
You mark the seals of my progression,
dutifully.
I give witness to this hour
and its beauty, its branches
the many avenues of pleasures
the pang for something more fruitful
as I wonder anew.
poetry ii. main