Keeping in Touch

There is also the utterance

of the fool’s music to be listened to

with as great attention as you

give your own

 

flat or mysterious dreams.

Invention on the edge of the void.

Stars on the line speak tersely of

‘creative accounting’

 

and it touches us for this evening

I too should like to be loved.

That fricative dark I

swallow, dropping

 

the net where it may.

Its curious bifocal effect, like

observing the casual panorama of language,

is literally an effect

 

in passing, its

every phenomenon is regional, reading

off foolish grids into truth

and the metaphors

 

we love as our own, revealed.

A humane, political loneliness,

the clouded mirror over the entrance,

your eyes looking up

 

and rounding on the asymptotic line,

which is also without end

as placid space mimics itself.

And I don’t have to

 

apologise or make myself scarce

because I am not the subject

of their concern,

but also a spectator.

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