Saturday, January 5, 2008
Our Illuminated Penchant
our top cloud held back, the plane spun magnificently. any truth to falling erects this plan in nature. wild plotting of control resumes its course, until a sentence makes a mind. watch the pressing claim of gravity and dream, shift particulars for a last object, then identify recent claims, offshore. wind flattens some taxing notion, as if a comma could stay in place. the subject renders itself useful, dilating in the day full of sun. further wind remains a deed, a condition, a plot element for a narrative that has taken to the wind. are we patient observers or traces? the commotion of a language, at this time, stirs prehistory. we could go on with facts, their radiance, our program, but the issue blurs into a mesmerized terror as the plane safely c crashes. now the earth is included, now it isn't all words. as poem finds a way for more evacuations and resistance, a definite incursion sets up a new league of sentences. a poem, found by words, removes itself from consideration. in doing so, it joins the miners in their skulking trend. this is good enough, for these days.