Get down to the marrow of it.
Truth is not prescribed for pain;
This uncertain light shakes the central
of my being.
In dark rooms of silence when I try to
rest,
I am soothed only by you, my gentle muse,
Imposing onto me the burden of discovery.
It is possible, possible, possible. You
must
Still your incessant lyre and allow me
Moments of peace. As in any Supreme Fiction
Peace is not the end but the beginning.
Auroras under the trees in autumn;
Feeling half dead, deserted on a beach.
It is white. The single bird, the obscure moon;
Lost and all at once in direct position
Between primary noon and the A B C of being.
There were ghosts that spoke the feeling,
Which was what they lacked.
Poesis, Poesis, The palm at the end of the mind.
Stripping this tree to stoke the fire fangled
Furnace in the early March wind
Of sleep’s faded paper mâché…
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