THE COLD An extirpation is her way to marvel Doubt's tremour & names us (its valve) a small beauty does perfectly endure in memory without regard to hope or fear this treed company a figure almost (opening a Valdepnal window, seamless also a door Whose aureole glistened, after? Whose laid down an arm, so gladly? Whose surprise incorporated? Whose clavicle held a soft murmur outward? Whose sternum was alabaster in relief? Whose sun warmed it, such a sternum, in such, "in such" a key? Who said "such" as if the heteroclitic band would glisten? Whose head "spun"? Who traced that aureole with a lip or femur? Whose turned back? (Here we are talking about the voice, a simulacrum of the cuerpo. Who dressed "consequence" in such gaudy shoes? Whose blessing was obvious, a limen? The word "cuerpo" is already the repository of such a distance, & bears the topological trope of rhetoric. Where we were going in the narration. The body admits to this, a kind of precocious tear or tear, a narrational knot it feeds. & if Lyotard says he will speak no more of "surfaces of inscription", it will be necessary to undo his interdiction. The surface of inscription not a place but a danger. A line is foraged there. Abrasion hears us where a line is.) Whose aureole? (An inscription insists, insists.) Whose mouth says "aureole"? Whose transcription, urgent, hears what the mouth says?
|The East Village Poetry Web