from A Pilgrimage Of Snails
Small odours hold in the walnut-
panelled Glory Box, in special coffins
for the life remembered, lined
with pale silk; there, that’s your face,
bent around the convex plane
of the unused silver spoon
that’s your name,
on the ticket stubs and programmes;
a poster with your fame,
by the main event,
which was always you,
stopping to roll the rich grass,
an inch greener near the river,
as you lay there, beside the opaque
cooling flow, thinking
deep and slow.
That’s you, needs a polish,
the infinite complexity
of patterns, the massed
and wriggling trillions
upon trillions of intelligent
yegling squiggles Particle
Colliders accelerate for:
the Moment— is pattern
and you are followed
for programmes of Prediction,
and all which seeks to manage
and control the chaos,
as it domineers
in its return, always
to disable the despotic
of genomic mimicry.
Id, I.D., Rfid, IRD: can anyone
this known truely be unique?
happiest the moment, is it Movement?
E.motion, as you ripple or splash,
and dependant on your entry in the barroom,
your presence, in the mirror, in her mind,
to admire, to align, the stroke,
along your top lip, to show you ride
that wave, a joke; you’ve a memory, or is it:
a Manufactured Presence?
The Ages, as today, as days before;
yes, you are, all day, and all night.
In sleep, and not at fault, and no remorse,
because there is no blame, and no,
no you’re not, as you went, bearing
your heart upon the granite columns
and stub-crushed alters of the pavement.
Saw in each the same
hard mad trouble we ride
ahead of ourselves, in designer
A thing worried on is a miracle forfeited.
At this place, of Now, day or night,
in such a way, as you are able— grab
the wild situation, until each moment
clears itself. That’s it, happy are we truest
in the courage of no future care
to where we end, exactly where we are—
a pressing in the light from underneath.