Thursday, June 12, 2008
Seemingly Endless Herds of Wildebeests
Cast clouds, in story, pull humid dozens from the fragments, tellingly. Poised in that muddled precociousness are the Worcesters of dropping down. This is dropping into place, where weather is logical and perceived, and still falling for the reasoning. The news satisfies as a thundercloud cracks. The earth itself lives in language, that is what we keep telling ourselves. A poem is a village where Hillary, Barack and John maunder. Luncheons are served, west backs us. Newspapers get wet in this Worcester of which you speak, said someone from precincts away. Is it truly faring as a taste? The answer is yes, tho blind and alleging. Wiser heads fail. The country of which we speak, a nation, knows no one, not even people. Names are positions in a rule of intent. We hold something to the light, and call it love. It is as strong as that, and bears us. Worcester is a place. so called. Trials and balloons each make advance. Then the poem, of its own volition, turns on the language it gave.