Liz Waldner



Such as reduced the Heathens to Divinity…

In our study of Anatomy there is
A mass of mysterious Philosophy
Kyrie sounds and loud fornicating
Sounds and sounds of I am become
Stupid, my heart through a sieve
Conceived the need to birth you
(as night the sea sounds in silence)
But issues breach instead so I
Conceive myself the miserablest
Person extant. Sextant; leaves
Fall inside the bishop's skull
And all; why withal are ways all
Lost amongst strait ligaments?
And stars and dawn? Mere emoluments;
I walk on, administering my self
In the face (ow) of fresher freshet:
I dote on Life yet never measured out
Your Fabrick. Days later smoking
("All fire signs, how painful," she opined
At dinner) with the leering cook who
Says, "He lost me when she fucks a carp"—
So the Fabrick's patterned, bolt by bolt,
My share canopic only. I am (scarp,
Scree) fallen, Egypt, fallen. See?
The leafmould out the arterial earthworm
Now the leaf vein of the kale I steam
On a hotplate in my room, soon
Among seven green mountains
(Green and removing vale—anodyne)
More remotely in myself carnified.
Thus I am and know now how; I fall
And fear falling as I fall. Call it implicit
Sense: all flesh is grass not only
Metaphoric; cadaverous Reliquaries
Walk content beneath the trees;
You gone, I grieve the first EVEning
Walking through unquiet absence to
Yellowed grass in a square that means WHERE
And moss where were our hearts.
Well. I believe the letters sent you
Are digested into flesh-you; the next fish
Your nipple bit tasted mine too.
Troll, rill—until—not anything
Of moment more: there is
Something in us that can be
Without us, and Will.

Home |  EPR #1 | About EPR

 

© 2001 Electronic Poetry Review