The only thing that can’t go on is
going on
every perceptual quantum begins it
all again
only the qualia sometimes linger
o Abelard o quanta qualia
the golden sabbaths of the wounded
heart
wanting to know how to make it go
don’t let the children come in
all birds belong to you and fish are
mine
pale wild-eyed ones swimming in my
cavern
we who walk along the ground the
strangest are
misshapen by desire bent over a bad
book
our whole lives pictured there in
code.
199.
Muybridge photos of a breaking heart
a daffodil in haste a monkey in a
window
a dreary paper they call The Daily
Olds
deer are watching from the new-ground
woods
how many years have they been here
looking, crashing into our cars,
waiting for something
waiting for us to do something about
ourselves
units of intelligent remorse
all the broken answers
war is never an option war is never
bring me your hand to hold at least
the old man’s sword used to cut
bread.
