Here the crusts of letters
crumble over my hands–
I write, I strike;
remember, do not remember.
Half-eaten rags, the words
that describe moon;
caress means little;
whisper a worn out shoe
brush down stale chairs
with tender words
unseamed and straggling
that yet spring
so green, so blue
from language-that-though-polluted
runs–
try to block true combustion
still it comes.
I find myself
–in the wake of Sylvia Plath,
a weathercock spinning all to hell–
in these hours and words
with enough to spell: ecstasy;
deformity; boredom;
to draw bodies that move in fire and history,
where Rilke holds forth
with a dark, unpolluted light
give me dark
give me (pause)
,
give me
magisterial
pause magisterially
in this near-forgotten house
unlock the door
a frame–
a heroine?–