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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