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She was not attracted to him She wanted Rilke back from Paris She was cold, it was damp in the house Their baby was coughing she was afraid

Had he been a Poet she would not have stayed In the dark village. In Worpswede. Life was slower than in Paris, only Apollo was a politician,

Distracted, easily influenced, memorable, haunting his statutory descendants with extinct nights that broke the midnight skies into clouds of paler nights, entrances that upon a second look proved convex

lying eyes, deceitful poses of farewell following a life full of desire pressing the thorns of the stem of the rose into her flesh hard bone wondering why this german was long anxious that the distance would be cut.

GRACE LAKE

'unknit that' on salt the eddies flee the colours flit the players steam the discourse salt heat crystalline rubbed soaked for plant refin the use returns to the people from the caves of a dress turned to salt a desert artist of mordent paint a yellow cord to snip & smudge caked twist made to answer for absence in close heat thirst absorbed by presence of salt, wax drip ink fix up the sand flowed the salt aeons of sinking sloping city uneasy salt fate accident of infinitesimal weave pointillist wife turned to a pillar of the establishment that can't hold water without melting to cloud for the fall took a daughter when man his freedom won she was runnelled down to the refinery to purify her of what remained of life

60

that was not water won & chafed her thighs with salt. lambs lettuce then to hide sprayed asterisks heaped veined green stroked down violet green from furry sward puncta in crimson damascene took much thought to trace the florentine thought of soya, sardine wedged in tight unpromising stiff in pot preservatif for dip for sand cracked beasties blood to crimson top set tracery & threw a scooped to open see god, see, & laughs to register memory tears won’t wash away. twelve thousand minds & moods from lost paradise unrecovered from a glance through a cardboard placard over stressed, duress, a capacious envelope of decent paper bakunin’s running mate transformed from the silent wait of a southern port scorpion how do minds not know they know who show the disparate levels in a sea land paradox below Running back with tales who hears nothing the pillar will fall, menacing reminders that the sound of a mouse in the salt or the wrist flap of a caught squeak will be knifed through to test for what cake is not, or a collar of what men hate to leave behind the depth of a washed up missile imagining the ends are double flipped & can replace voodoo, innocent to the end of the pliability of the mind‘s plasticity to exchange rate value, white sprinkled through pitch she tottered, as a reminder, towering swayed over the way from the sphinx all brown and recommended for power by the charming straight liner Owyn Glendower whose faith in the future diminished by the hour in the shifting wastes of symbolic uses distant as far as the horses could be roomed one was a hat & pretending to manhood here moves Salsola moves observed by paintbrush will dissolve in slum brown & grey, or lattice coupons for the life of the spotters of odd, gives himself back soul of salt, ghost walking past, seersucker, one attracted by the description of himself given to the living body of his next victim or rather the one who does not seem to live imagining there to be height extant he will sit atop her head a crouching cunabul meshed& drenched in dribbling saffron runes

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antiphony

all this time i had not been seeing paper question provoked by unwanted question theatre everywhere outside his pocket eating the hand locusts husking colours faint from disintegration on journeys steps have been constructed to found claiming feet historical take precedence over mind relapses wanted to suit conformity seem to want illusion of reality the easy way receiving good wishes & twisting them into screwy barley sticks whether the doors exist despite the people behind them their presence not to be warmed to the narrow slats of light waiting for winter to give way the open season of an invitation to desert November the fleeting visions of a distant life where ever we are closed back from the crimes that artists know are not the crimes of those people who press against incomprehension & when those go how lonely shall we be the children inheritors of agon refusing all approach watching sadists leer in inquisitive, lethally avaricious in the way the innocuous are loud & evidently incapable of supporting themselves one would not have thought that that was the marginalia do you meet paganism again on your way back? wilful removal of paper from art how strange to imagine anyone to be there freely pressgang maoists mistaking the people for history what Art? that calls itself the spirit of the times & laughs at organ music as though it were a substitute for the censored word. hatred of me the game. the wall had been down many years constructed from its prohibition we bit our tongues to keep back screams & tears

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staring into it to will it to reveal the day the butter pat was served without a drink reminded thus of my own love for irrationality courtesy of a logic inaccessible to him whose club has never been found the multitudes walked home escaping his translation of COCO.

GRACE LAKE