A safety that is not safe
In coveting residue for invention
a gap begins to pool
in the boundary. All I want
in my resentment is a just generosity of time.
Gift it to me. Slow now. A condition
of unfolding. Voracious endless invention
like an arm that brushes upon a rib cage
in the fringe to mark its wanting.
Gift me some house far from cruelty.
An unconditional structure unfolding
to the sky until we see who we give
just as a limb presses in on a rib cage.
& so in mending its brick it is yours.
Look: how far from brute wilderness
having invented inside your exterior
& having learnt who you give up.
Hedging such a private possession
you say you have willed sanctuary
into being. All on the outside
willed to wonder all the wonder you hold
& there in deep built time unrests
a difference from what I have wanted.
Drier than a desert. No reserve
for the palm. No sand.
from studies in the shape of time
So what now:
you sit between
the fire & fence
& between the fence
& the boulevard
two people are walking
side by side. & one
begins to sing,
to offer a softness
not for the companion
but for air, for anyone
who will feel it. A gentle
rhythm of syllables:
a familiar language
but not a vocabulary.
Just before the song you hear
your name from that direction
summoning a home away
from home a geometrist
of surfaces re-enchanting
the shape of the world
& you wonder if
you are right to ask
who you are.
This is the universe
of all possible tables:
how one surface
touches another surface
bending its imminence
to follow the imprint of a context.
& what now:
in days spent poring
over records for signs of awe
an itinerant history of the west
beats into regulation the legibility
of feeling. Bewildered by the bruise
of a record & everything yours
that is not yours.
There is a collared pigeon
on the street where you stay
in a house among unspoken subjects.
The bird mistakes an orange glow
of sodium vapor for the sun>
how it tricks us
the passing time
that it has become
an absolute place.