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PROSE & PROSCENIUM
Kissed blackest, white awaits all on a bleak block.
One is too many in ideal order.
Seeming ardor, the most of missed.
No
Guard to regard, no netted night.
For all
falls, fails, fools, feels—
As this space of spots
stops time over
Breath’s vibrato.
Red verses read, no re-
verses no, being bang.
Between acts: the shadows
Stay alive, twist into the shapes of letters.
It is said
They look like actors, reciting lines.
But to be what water, & what home to whom?
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THE ANSWER IS NO
Possessive of
what
whispering space—
No thought is thought: a ware aware
Of the value of air.
After yes, Law’s
Walls falls, reason risen too heavy to heaven.
Here & here, the sore series rests—
as thought without
thing wears the ring.
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