1740

1739

1738

1737

Doe sloe eyed

Is consequential

In this morning's field equations

Along the unreal axis:

She is the complex root

Of my equal I.

Sloe eyed, once,

Was consequential

In a fluorescent light.

1736

1735

1734

1733

1732

1731

1730

1729

1728

1727

1726

1725
Make this thing without your worth,
And empty be;
The morning sun that new-sets a world's
Fine tracery
Is not yours,
For its currency has no name.
No receptivity as fine
In what it perceives
Serves your phantom'd sight,
That wants what is not there.

1724

1723

1722

1721

1720

1719

1718

1717
Because the wind is high
I ache to breathe in the space between
What sees and what is seen,
As if all time were stopping there,
As if an earth were sky
That choked fictitious emotion.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LG5squHcOyI

1716

1715

1714

1713

1712
As a lace of marble
Unworn by years
Signs grace and fluid stillness
To an eye that yearns,
So once there is a way
To show what is hidden
Will art know its reflection,
If it be to reflect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HCaBAV4ZTI&feature=related

1711

1710

1709

1708

1707
The concept of an hour
Unmakes and makes a time
To be, and gone,
In a seeming arc
Of identity.
But catch an instant
To its next and last,
Then unnaratived spring my motions,
And my body both thought's vessel
And manifestation.
What whole is not a part
Of some still greater art?

1706

1705

1704

1703

1702

1701

1700

1699

1698
Enwheel this moment
Of evening light
Round with memory,
To stay what must go:
Moon, sky,
And answering shadow;
Stay this season of embracing sense,
By these tokens engendered;
For I feel the millrace of hours,
That wants no perception to run its course.

1697

1696

1695

1694

1693

1692

1691
Heard the low piano in the empty rooms
Like a church of my interior
Where every breath's symbolic,
And present sacrament
And rite of nothing.
Though another press the key,
There will be silence when I go.