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Ecstasis
The river goddess turns one quarter turn each
turn each gesture fans and stills
worlds skating over water, dusk's fly. Surrendering
names feed water's eye. As the bead
toward the pivot on the surface of the disk
is drawn by what force does the goddess,
turning without turning raise a lush
column of sedge? Immaterial as gravity,
names, gender, species and genus rise and descend
the water's meaningless ever, trying
out a corpus lucida on tensor legs of alar
filament in the shallows, as in saying
over
and over a name
so her song reaches us. Each brief tense
an eye, each plash tympan omni
present joy redact the book of her creatures
by her creatures
gladly eaten, so they, too, turning
in ecstasis bear witness
themselves inventing.
Chronos
A riddle: When I look at you, you do not move,
yet when
I look away, a dam gives up all purpose,
and the natural
company of solitude is that fiction called
the self. Can you name the virtue
stand and bloom at 32 frames per second
pushing out against silk by silk both hidden
and revealed. It is patience, or perhaps it is
indifference toward rational
procession. Deny the angel-in-flesh before you
accept the angel is the angel behind
that angel. And so forth. It would be far simpler
to start with Movement as the cause of existence
and then
work backward to the Present
suspicious, uncompromising, ever alert,
free of impurities, scrupulously avoiding
all mechanical and mathematical representations,
an army of mutants, giddily paranoid, acknowledging
Turmoil, under whose cover a brief lifespan
is possible, Lord Tick and Tock commanding
several battalions of mustard seeds, grains of sand,
languishing afternoons and love's urgency. Return
is ritual, daydream, sentiment, masturbatory
surge of captive feeling into
now it wets and I am dry, my aspirations
temporarily at bay. The narrow gears
of prophesy grind
like any other noise, incomprehensible
over the sound of the breeze that plays
among the morning wheat.
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two poems
gil
ott
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