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Ah, Captain, Glad You Are Here

words were lank, of a beaming mortal flame, and bent stylus to present: such is the main line of direct. we sink alert process delimiters among swards and rank grass. the fallen snow of cold days stems reaping. mold offers fidelity, spores resume search. we sap a barn door present at the beginning. ether was a poem by Whitman, once. and Lorine Niedecker woke betimes, with Wisconsin made of ice. dreams fell into the murky waster, winter blended with dreams. Zukofsky remained studious, until no time was left. we scrawled a report. it was a definitive moment, only blurrier than regal announcements. a poem written in a language cooled by the window. no, it was a pie, and a hobo stared avidly. the story became something straight from a whirling stutter of words. well and good, sinking and then, lightly, the snow melted, subliminated, settled into reverence. a moment of that word, then all changed. a poise stated resistance, yet that map, it clouded, and we began again. the word was at its prime when we spoke its meat. written, it reserved another space, for us...

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