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from A R R A Y

I am writing this
almost completely in exile.
I wanted to inscript the newness
of each moment, to watch
the ferryboat moving slowly
across the prairie,
the grasses waving,
but I wanted, somehow,
a purer conception
of the language,
a different kind of order,
or else a larger number
of heinous sentences.
I couldn't help it.
In other words
I couldn't stop myself;
I'd been taking notes
all along. I tried to keep
myself from falling adrift.
I wanted to understand
equal time, but
the year itself kept turning
no matter what I wrote.
I could have placed it
in the fold of your skin
and you would have
never even noticed:
I kept spinning
long after this.



The night stars were spread out
almost equally ahead of me,
within
their own nomenclatures.
I might have used
the whole,
elongated void for this,
even though
it wouldn't have stopped the sudden spins.



When everything becomes political our private lives dry up,
the frank exchange of veins grows cooler by the moment.



Life continues to impress this way.



As with the postern out my back door,
a gate enclosed without a fence
(having long since disappeared)
which I had never thought of going through
until now. Why would I? But when the last stars appear,
in the early morning light, I will have stepped through.
The flowers were meant as a reminder of spring,
and the power of the equinox.
I was merely standing in place a while longer,
on the other side.
I had arrived, as often was the case,
sooner than I thought.
Until the first arc, or spark,
negates the whole thing.
But I wanted others to understand what I had just written
when I scarcely had any idea at all.
I was typically insecure. I wanted the moment
to fill itself out, to peak the present with my own voice.
I was just a little contemptuous, it's true.
Things began to improve, once I started to alternate
a few of the more burnished shadows
with their brighter or lesser opposites.
Nonetheless the banners were all in place.
I seemed to know the way better than I thought,
which wasn't unusual.
The nearly empty stretches of lemon light,
and the deepening shadows,
grew more familiar.
I began to stick more closely to them.
It was my life which had begun in starlight after all.
In those tiny, small shivers of light, which kept splitting into halves
long before they reached your eyes or mine, I was reminded of beginnings,
then ends. I find I am trying to reconstruct both, here, out of this paper.
But, I think, some are in peril: X. Zero. Or the number 1, for example.
Serendipity.
Things are becoming too large
and too small
at the same time:
Those deep, semi-
oracular
intergers of sleep
and waking.



A cocoon of nearly invisible, broken stars.



Just as it is no longer possible to measure,
or take note of,
what I am doing here.

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