. . . but tell me spareness dictates this place, erects solemn
words as a barrier, encircles, envelops by invention–a scheme
derived from the pure concept of grasp.
Whose home now, here?
Not the lessor who only mimics nurture.
Nor its inhabitor who like a sublimation bullies out the air, makes
its pressure deeper – oh! sweet, infernal rebellion.
oh! shaking fists at glass fear. oh! certainty’s
dim tunnel, spiraling . . .
When the white room topples and its sheen disperses, only
shape (the light remains, formless; a box whose points,
whose lines, whose planes no longer reference a static
physicality–the architecture of chaos) shrinks and falls gently
onto the palm of wise, patient Darkness: he
guards it from Denial that cautious fool who stumbles
out of our weariness into the thick pit of recollection
where now so obscured from our vanity we
appear a caution to ourselves against too much self-
love–we then speak of cures
as distant places being etched into our life-won wounds.
Blood tunnels out of the heart to rejoice, speaks thunderous
from the heartbeat–oh! love accelerates without motion–
But tell me spareness dictates this place . . .
Copyright 2011 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.