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CCCXLI

ODE

ON THE INSIDE
Burgkmair's St. John At Potmos
Clean-cut, like a wound
closing upon itself

time-lapse, the walls

so quietly purify
my guarded eyes

windows thrown open
to a fresh wind gust
crisp with loud alabaster white

blinding! after the mustiness
of time-lapse emotionlessness

pain collected by the mute air-
conditioners of The Dark:

My Room decorated How I Feel

because th'bird
who also feels
cannot decorate his nest himself

O Disfashionable Nature
decorates his nest insensibly

while I, privileged I
can decorate my room just
how I feel

Something Other Than

even eyes (two pieces of cake
which once was a piece of cake

before the door was closed between them

and I abandoned part of my room
to make more room
My Emptiness!

         --Then
momentarily--I returned
to Th'Room

cultivated

to plant a Rose)

... as I tried
to explain to Mankind
words failed me, until I let go

watching Th'Wind
like some dispatching All
clutching a total loss
in the enduring bronze lines
of its crippling talons

I let go completely of even
the need for explanation

And not bothering to say Goodbye
I closed my door & prayed
within the dark

... while Life kept on
banging at my door (which
I would not open even if I could

--knowing who was without)

for which: the World piled up The Dust
outside, over & above me, with
but their tongues,so snugly inside themselves
unfeelingly, insensibly, I almost
beside myself, shaken, while in

Th'Fury of its action: Storm
like some monstrous crumb-
ling of all Possibility

upon some outside tree vent its
Frustration pouring The World on
its limbs & crushing th'daring leaves
to the ground             
                --Yet
in the beating it received
that tree made no protesting sound! And

there remained to my
delivered
eyes: a Silence soughing upon Th'Air

something more poignant than
a thousand cries
could've put there--
  

           & flew down
to my side, accepting a tiny crumb

after the mustiness of time-lapse, all healed,
rapturously                        
                    & winged quick
over the field
of blooming infinite,           
            feral & fulfilled.

Juan Gris's Still Life Before An Open Window

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