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From "thirsty poems"

at fog

and for an indefinite period the sky is cleared away. the
sweep of some thing across it is like the hare of midnight
crossing the band of spoilt frost of the fog remains
in taupe fashion the modern-reeking swirls of ether yes
like phantoms but spirits of an as yet un-named
catastrophe, so in-bound, inhered, inscribed
all is deep and deep is personal. it happened so slowly that
slow is to it as meaningless as it is to a hare. a
petrified shelf (or slab), time is beneath the petrified ocean which
does not conceal the becalmed dance of continents oh no, but
still reserves the right to shift, to shimmy every what? let’s
say a million years or so, over a period of a million years. or so,

at my feet glass. coloured glass is not at all like
confetti but actually is is a kind is a kind of, of confetti—from
the marriage of some insane technologies of chance—and
in trying to apply that sense of okay if you like
that “world view” to the now. bush, and dead berries chasing
off the lost hare whose terror at the dogs’ barking through
the high, the irregular, angled in, columns of this estate.
we may indeed be premature, the way sound hurries
in the hollows and is transmitted in the fog, like
water over, or across a web. I find I am not able to

and, rising up from the smoke shrouded table the
committee pass with desperate satisfaction, the
motion. the city is blind, but it is still an organic whole.
lawfully, one must apply the rules of lawlessness. though
through which we move ourselves as blind as
bats (when we fly) as worms (when we burrow) less
able to define the piazza against the cul-de-sac than to apply,
confetti to the track of a hare. both are poignant though, I think.
they speak out
not about what was lost, what once was, what morsels are left lying.
the hunt is a ritual, and ritual means nothing some
thing we once did which we don’t now; frost brittle grass tips
and a sudden carnival of hares, a whole handful of merciless hares.
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