poet as abstract

the truesomeness of the abstract
form

forms an inadequate tryst with
moan

& grasps the root the supple dint
hope

of root & miss – the grappled un
true

what is manged by the volume of verity   it is dust’s own   what is sung by tremor by noon’s surrender by the tap of a hungry chord   it is dust’s own   we cannot arrange this word as it falls off the tapestry   it is done   it is the opposite of word   the scene is rife with other words   it is dust’s own

The arbitrary plonk is
this river’s demure

upbringing; it will swim
when it can, and when

its wrists slacken, you
don the filament of ash

Perhaps you
  tuned your
  mouth as the wash of ancient

Mouths would
  have you do;
  perhaps your art of deliverance

Is shoulder
  and head,
  and perhaps this too is oblique

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