Dark Fall

Trammeled in this horn— is the secret sound of existence.

Jailed in the metal of this silver pipe that is longing

And to nothing in the universe there is–

Belonging, the blowing of the pearlesque– trumpet

The centerless angels thronging and descending

En masse— the secrets of gold, that the Lead and

Cinnabar have hidden mercurial– it shifts away with

Heat– emptied the metallic which sings, belated

Tunes which are empty–

Do not exist, never fall to the enemy’s slanted

Encounter with envy. Keep secret when there is the hurting of the

Heart- and hurt even in memory. What is atlantic is the soul– the

Blue blue of it holds all resonances falling into it, and many are the fathoms

Full of it– the painful truth of it, troubadour of every minute of the truants hearts

Ticking. That was supposed to be silenced in the beginning– but keeps on

Moving

I want the metal shadow of a Modigliani. I want the metal shadow of the Modigliani, Moving over me, the shadows wake– oh pray at dawn against the strict lutenancy over

Being– praying at dawn for the dusk that scrapes above like a descending curtain of the dusk, like a curtain of iron, the charged charred dusk of it– the shadows flit.

Going summiting stubbornly over things. The

The auburn beings’ of Naiades, that exist to sing the soul of moss to being

Everything that moves is the seagrass and the sweetgrass and the wavy moss is wreathed to life by the waves

Wrought to being as life– the sea moves the bodys like a straight straw

Truancy– these are the empty weaves of sea which spins to vortexes-

I want to cast the sun ahead as a thick stone– then follow it. And my heart will see it skip. To see what it is to shadow it as momentum following fallowly onto dawn –fallowly onto dawn, the strict motion of simplicity. To hear the motion as it moves the soul

The soul becomes as the whole sea rippling. The black holes like iridescent oil in pent up dais of black black sky are trickling– a pond in single fluid movement.

A stadium of applause. The apples of Hades. The comments echo the profound symphony

Appall the chalk chert of the roots pushing themselves into the ground.

The pert peat timpani— the aspersion of shadows shadowing shadows that move like

Stalks of the elms, when at night their ashy legs rearrange in single movement

A symphonic extrusion of shadow hands.

And I am everywhere the shadow lands, and am its movement. And I at a moment of the entrance of all influent

Why in all red is there the sweet ring of the purple plum dawn,

The turnstile of the dilating movement of the days the shadow waylays. How many times have the mountains of slate rippled with light. Tell me not how many ways have the mountains of these felt the glance of the light against all remnants of the

Slight-leaned obsidian that holds the mirror of mottled purple dawn. The plump ash-tree’s yawn long-hair.

Tell nobody to keep count of the days I have watched the rainbows saccades in obsidian. I always feel secrets in the count of the days that I have and have not seen them. And tell nobody of the secret of all the days on which my mind is split in ways between the two perspectives.

I wish for silver of all the Atlantic that traveling prow ramming cuts.

Call to being call to being the darn of those silky sails in secret traveling of circumferences!

And so many days,

I wish for all the light in the world to percuss against all the mountains in the world. And to melt all the shadows in the world and to fuse one last

Image

In the world

Of them– and burn

Them away

A cinder unmoving across the ground is all that remains— it is a trace. At the passing of it. And all I see is the light entering and calming them.

Ask that I will not fall again– the dappled light that enters into all the shadows to warm them. They will not fall again.

They will not leave a trace of weight when they fall again. They cannot have it. And I wish that the shadows could disappear for everybody.