Tuesday, September 28, 2010

127. Dulce et decorum est pro amor mori

Dulce means suite so there are
many of them that make a whole
or milk. Leche is late but she
cannot wait for him, or her who’s
growing within. Nuit is not
a hard nut to crack, though breaking
it engenders light. Gender is
gentle, difference between who
is what and why is how
and screaming in her sex
or sleep. Steep is our learning
that curves along her thigh
and up into the point where she
gently seeps and smells of
frankincense. Immersion
is a method of taking the body out
of one space to place it
in another and, thus, another’s.
A lover insists a part of the process
of loving and making love. A lover
resists as against the current
of desire and wanting. What more
or less she must or might
do or believe to be
or make or make do. The morning’s
grass in glistening’s temporary
state or country of his origin
or her body. Knowledge runs
and, in streaming, leaves
itself behind. A leafless book,
the pages still flow past, in eyesight,
mindsight, sense of words like breath
or smell. History, though she has one too,
or many, since time makes times,
sets many moments in a single file.
As wife, in dreaming, a seeming
and sealing out the dark, she sees
on eyelids’ screens a scene that merely makes
and never does. And was her yearning one
of earning or remitting, every dollar’s
worth of love in oak or acorn’s
rolling from a kick of walking’s
way? An ounce of waiting for a pound
of table, langa, wood so soft but deep
in color, covered from the eye and dressed
in blue, as she, and draping, too, is.
For he and she together one do
make, or two, a furca, almost
what a love might make or be
or find. Look or looking,
locked by sight’s remembering’s grasp
and record, to make to seem as if
some seen was seen and real,
continuing as a happened fact or
fiction’s nemesis. The act of friction
makes the fire and keeps that coupling
going, what’s real making what’s felt
or felted touched and touching.
The quilt that covers covers one
or two and makes, from pieces,
wholes of warmth that sleeping
makes to slumber or to the sweeping-
out of dreaming to a window darkened
by the season changing aft and often,
all in sequence, circulate, as circling
and rounding a hole between
the space of eye or earth or time
and timing so that past’s eventual
is the present’s future. Tense in
chest, or rising pressure, or in the legs
and tight and straining, going to a
place to be, losing in a space of being
all that else but moment’s moment’s moment
here and only here, and hear. Her hand
is writing, writhing, words are coming
from the pen, her ink is flowing,
leaving, drying, driving thought,
a message, meaning, nail through
board and boards and holding
both together, making wood for home
or hold, book of wood of
paper, pulp of words and flesh,
the flashing lights of warning, waking,
warming, and the welt that marks
the skin that took the wording. Wonder
or to squander life for living, love
for loning, lift for lilt, the silt
of living settles slowly over feet then
ankles, covering, burying experience in
forgetting, losing, leaving out, and
blankness is the black that follows
till it is the only nothing
that there ever is.

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