Acousmatic

not a concept, much less a faith—

not quiet

but coming forward from the dust, a white mare

partially bone, primarily fast in the higher field

and was the sound of snow dissolving, glass being blown

from lips of beginners

where by love I mean a failing,

copious and opaque, heart without a practical power

most feeling the gives of undone

fountain and basin, the water

penned in, the tension to ring where the water

turns down, where the beads are cracking

our sun's white codex

in the courtyard foreign beyond the window

plurally into something else

when I live on the look of muteness, where I lived on the look

of happiness

rose that was quanta—

I ask after cost—after gouge of grass

and sky, after cause

that hides its cause

in unsustainable shapes of pain

in tempos habituating grass

redbud trees in arriving and splitting

accost, accost, come closer to my ribs

not only the understanding

has a language

be it wind in rings of meanest direction

or deepest remove when bluest in surface

by memory I mean

a skin: a cover for the underworlds

that we might try to breathe

or hear in wind a single

soothing thing

or hear of wind a kindred displacement

in our skins to the added

subtractions we live in, sun over sand, the coppered hem—

wetness, sun in tons of bells, in apples cut open

for eating

yes now I am listening to your fallible sounds

pity for the you

that is stranded, pity for the you

who dazed or faceless

where now I am hearing a mechanical click

to see I had no beautiful shelter

the motioning colors of the trees, the edgewise

pit before beginning

to take up

listening as something harder, to take up

walking as something longer

attach me, walking, attach me


 
 
fcny