Thursday, July 9, 2009

"Great angels / fly at our behest / between towers"

marking the hours,

fall and rise, the

time and light along

feathers -- the edges as

finely ended as grass, or

needles in magnetic thickets,

minds like cables of

total internal reflection stretched

taut along the floor of

ocean abump with flattest fish, grey and

stippled after-image of

lowest exposure, en-

trenched and geologic camera obscura, and

worms small enough for

three dozen, unseeing, plus an

angel on the head of a pin:

close cousins to those

drafty timekeepers, all

daft from lack of will, from

bliss (one leaper, they

say that he fell, and is

falling, frozen, still), they

float in noble profile -- well of

blue sky behind -- for our

good: their eyes of

impossible fire, their

gaze of all years, months, hours, and

days. They're so ticked off. At

midnights, the bells, and

our role becomes clear: they

mark, but we are the

passage of time:

they mark since we're here and have

chosen knowing good, and so

hold in each hand, however

evil, a split second chance.

(Edited 21 June 2009, begun 31 May 2009. After Rae Armantrout, "Eyes" (after John Milton). A mix of ancient and modern imagery, with an attempt at iconic structure in number of stanzas, not counting the title. I'm interested in form and content, in the mechanics of representation and reception, and wonder how ideas match an image, or images capture an idea, and whether words in linear order can speak compellingly of experiences whose timefulness is felt differently.)

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