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An Ode.

"The Poet is able to acclaim the flower because he uses its fruit as food"59
Alonso Cano's The Vision of St. John
Your words run stilled
& are you deep?


The somber-fostered Shadows
--Summer loves--
which Winter's Peace estrange &

Autumn Dirges,

Melancholic Spring
( robbing
your pure tender un-dying) and

soft hushed shrimp Shades of thinking
( Urges ) maybe the deep-dark

green Solitude without reference
or consequence, that blue Image

(of) th'Sea's persisting textures
upon Time

or, grey'st Eternity --Every version
eyeballing The obvious:

with pale immutability wasting away
the wealthy currency of Life
to chilly elegies

It's always too late for someone
but it's never too late for anything

the madcap Minimum

--a wilder bewilderment than All
the previous ones that led to it

through the utmost landscapes,
Rousseau's Woman Walking In An Exotic Forest
the orchards of The Hush,
Caprice's unquitting workshops,

Design's shrinking circuits,
Life, some fortuitous stain,

Th'Moment's imminent, unstoppable
translations, Forces which make us
so willing to pause

(watching our Self's vain Exit) here
being The Only Proof that in the make-

believe Beginning cradling us there goes
a Hope (further than, merely), but a God

too simian for what keeps spirally spinning
down mists of too dry Mist/Mind run

your words of Dread like dolphins dancing
all through the smothering equivalences

of Th'Changeless: boiling down to
an ocean of Sameness--th'murderous

months of The Moment's motions like
empty ceremony taken for Implication!

profoundly affirming The False with
imagery of inversions is our foundation

--There's Peace! for us all (in

that deep: All jells! ... even the disparate
compromises of Mankind torn to shreds by

its integrity exalted to a tee like a) crucifixion,
his presence like Progress its personification,

climaxes for references, magnificence
sans all significance comes Man!

cast brute, blind & pitiless

from some Higher Nowhere after
Noun having crossed Th'Thinmost

(line of contrast) O, twixt Beginning &
Death: move those ever-menacing midgets of
Mankind in tints of orange & yellows &
ostentatious with hardly a relief in sight:

black & white through the unpardonable
dappled (indispensable deliriums of

The Light) like a tragedy where All is

Beginning! Always, only, always:
Form/Decay & all this eternity's but The Un-

true Start (to the most next brief
edge of Existence) with definitely

NO definite END in sight, some saying, "O what
horrible something's The Endless" in which

some find a morbid beauty in the circular, repetitive
static ... while others a challenge out of which
they must hatch--             

         O, Start is forever nimbler
than Th'Quickest Ending (which can't ever hope

catching it) while mourning
th'Triumph of Time

tumbling without trailing
through The Modern ( meandering may-

bes drowning in the imagery of

th'gone ages) stunned into talking,
his solitude like a consolation,

sits Man

like a sentence all his own,
Conscience's enormous pause

staring upon th'hues of Fall

Reason to the point of risk
and Risk to the point of Reason

even as yet from the bosom of some
unborn Spring: Nature still promises us

another indiscriminate Flower--still
one more as-guilty bee (amongst the

impossible poems of The Thematic O) Man, runs

your Word: The Appalling Ellipsis!

& are You (stilled) with-

in so deep!?
Pissarro's Orchard

^{59} Against Keats's "Frail Youth, beneath the trees, you cannot leave your song, nor ever can those trees be bare..."@