Tuesday, September 20, 2011

No Content

A room full of poets
roomful killers. Diane steady
talking papers, green papers
or other countries papers, easily
scatters you out, regrets for you.
Halting worlds, by one, clicks
of the machine mind, khaki.
It might absolutely be about
something, secret of no content.
What is a subject? Squeezes
my hand for your trouble.
The same day love pain, ladder
to and from that emptying.
Where was I? That loss greater
than event. My saint march
broken from morning from days,
fierce absent extends sickens,
congested spirit you all times
feels. He feels. Your cell feels her
and the others I'm as dull as.
(March 1965)

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