Long You Must Suffer (After Rilke)
Long you must suffer, know nothing
when a fallen apple chunk, bit and
rank, lobs it's sufferance within you.
Almost loving what you ponder.
Nothing anyone garbles brings it back out.
Snapshot of Rimbaud
You are ofcourse on the go somehow
but with the strangeness of stilled life,
white, dressed as in orderlies cloth.
Imagine this faded album-leaf,
mildewed, sunk in chrome light as some
collected piece heaped in archives
and after the many elopements
of yourself, as unfazed as a
pilfered day, there are no left-offs;
fingers and imprints.Run train,
sweat the blazing steel and steam
the inexorable formalities.
All day and into the next
all wasted agitation
receding and twice round and
down to the shops - the shaded
smells of detergent and noodles
all that summer, trees in phosphor
the light explodes and does not yield.
Back at dusk by the Kirk walls
I pour this petition, it's
gravity falling, through a
mute wall, a pencil thin mouth.
God does not pray for us
in his heaven dear fools,
the tree's hair quilts
This starched sky and
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A single dropp of water about to fall,
it must be in a studio, blue upon
blue reflection - the last cushioned indent
swells out and around that photographed image
clasped around by hand with the grate of thumb-flint
and lifts a little fuel to spark on top.
Everything is found in situ as it was,
picked up, with mats, nick-naks, old typed recipes,
a whole house ploughed through, remembering something
lodged in my head, of a tiny bird in the
Atacama dawn - rarefied air held it's
fine feathers and dry frost, so dry it's small eye
was a brimful of deep brimming sky, and how
it seemed to sweat moisture I thought from it's
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