What Came

 

It flows until it's fixed

white marble with birdsong over it each slow slow-gathering

stalagmite pierced by a thousand                    

little transverse spongy runoffs bursting arterioles

but it isn't blood it's remembering

how the soul was struck and the fragile central chamber

of the show-home struggled in its refuse

black water of remembrance flowing without design

but never without 'meaning'

fat squabbly entrails spooling out everywhere

all over the ground fickle intimate disaster                    

a master throttled by his own exile

gives way and he falls

and falls again to new fumblings into new wards

of blight it's difficult to breathe like that                               

torn off wodged up into slurry-wash into watered silk

dressing gowns because there is no space

just gardens where ordinary sunlight and shadows play

no roofs only walls no houses only walls

a master with all addresses at his disposal

gropes for the gate but it's difficult to find the way

because of the walls the runoff 

mitching into a tidy garden child over child

so many between those walls it's necessary

to build more walls more walls between walls necessary

to make room for consideration and dialogue

as to how to exist without limit or beginning

wings without heads without birds pure

of any relation to body soaring up

into marble skies not yet resplendent but struggling

hard for resplendence heaven-bound trajectory

of the cannon-ball of imaginary future reckoning

look here we are