WEBVTT

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I'll read two more
poems from this.

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This is titled
"Middle Distance."

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I mean, this is a book in which
enjambment, and space, word,

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gap, syllable are
all characters,

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so it's hard to see without
seeing what's enjambed

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and what's not.

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And I'm trying to read
some of the silences.

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This is titled
"Middle Distance."

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"This is certain.

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Dream has no friends.

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Bottom is there, but
depth conceals it.

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Centuries cannot see us.

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Here, in liberty.

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Enter others.

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What are these eyes for?

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What are these hands for?

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I have been listening.

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A long time-- looks around.

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The frontier
"labyrinth"-- gestures.

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All the people in history--

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gestures further.

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The heart in my throat--

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spotlight on wilderness.

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Then their eyes were
opened and they knew

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and it vanished from sight.

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This is certain.

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Dream will not vector, is
illegitimate, hangs over us

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huge dry wings, suffers
with us, grows worse,

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is not identical with awareness,
often lies under the cathedral

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floor, ought to
spare us, oh surely

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it ought to spare us,
entertaining brevity

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like a sweet curiosity, always
the wings opening and closing

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at a constant rate, as if
nothing were happening, never

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beckoning or imploring why
do we stay, has a sharpness,

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is raven dark,
perhaps weak eyesight,

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is humble, is authentic--

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though, of course,
in the inaudible.

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Usually in bed at night
the wings tie down,

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you can hear them like
a growing of the dark,

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although all of it, of
course, stays the same--

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none of the letters
have been saved.

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This is certain--
inwardgoingness

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of the soul that won't lie down.

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Vague gods, no possible
restoration of order.

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Bright city held at
the hinge of the wings,

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remembered touch, weary
hands, flame snapping the air

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in its one body of
bright singularity,

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dust on the fire becoming fire.

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And how we shall be obedient?

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Dust on the fire, on
the seeming apple,

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in hand, in the
wake of the wings--

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"speechless
sorrowing of nature."

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You will get lost.

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You will be left.

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Bending over, looking
for the trinket lost--

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most quiet heaven.

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Pale light of the
reasons, soul walking

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in circles, weary scribe.

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Fly, I say, reins
in the one hand,

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you, now dislodging centuries,
need me by offering yours,

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suddenly, to free.

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Wheel without faces
on it happened to be.

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And I'll end on
"Underneath (13)."

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