There is also the utterance
of the fool’s music to be listened to
with as great attention as you
give your own
flat or mysterious dreams.
Invention on the edge of the void.
Stars on the line speak tersely of
‘creative accounting’
and it touches us for this evening
I too should like to be loved.
That fricative dark I
swallow, dropping
the net where it may.
Its curious bifocal effect, like
observing the casual panorama of language,
is literally an effect
in passing, its
every phenomenon is regional, reading
off foolish grids into truth
and the metaphors
we love as our own, revealed.
A humane, political loneliness,
the clouded mirror over the entrance,
your eyes looking up
and rounding on the asymptotic line,
which is also without end
as placid space mimics itself.
And I don’t have to
apologise or make myself scarce
because I am not the subject
of their concern,
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