In the haptic scripture, all cups
are running over. To one portion
of the curve where quartz is
ground, blue adds fable to fable.
The ledger groans. To think what
blood
cannot accommodate. Or to praise
what it can. What can be hoped to
balance where
the numbers hunch to life? The
ledger spills. Sun re-strings
its gold to eye. Green begins
its supplication. In absurd
attachment
to a known convexity, the
outstretched body
spools the weight. To subtract
its spine from the gulling
shadows, sleep unfits the column.
If elsewhere you loved the
penciled figures moving
consummately toward horizon, you
must promise here
to yield up counting. In the
drinking place
where nothing listens. And the
supplicant hand
is fixed in time. In time
with the weather: the slack and
tautness
of the water, the stashed
durations
between what is.
