The Solid of Sound
for Gustaf Sobin, a confession
(on method)
Air is merest modulation to err.
—to entertain the world, the
ablest
is A
Man of dark device.
His theater: shown blast, shone blind.
To
ward blackest vox, he
Springs; in
what white
Bounds expresses X.
Driven as A
Man arrives riven
as draft of that fabric, that breath.
°
A thought is a bone known by its shadow.
°
Never as always to ask
Voice of eye, expecting
space to turn inside out—
As distance stares hard into the sun.
No number feeling
The heaven-fled, the
flayed inherent in flesh.
°
As pure strain, the straight line consoles him.
°
My page, my abject skin, music-scored
I scan.
If two facing mirrors = infinity
Then I
have seen the back of your head, Beauty Hunter.
Deleted here, O enciphers the rose.
If reading = rewriting, then
writing is not equal to itself.
For a circle collects only—but cannot find—its first & last.
°
Antecedent
to time: Now announces its
Ark unsealed.
You (all) dream headless, your (collective)
Body
sounding like a drum.
Saying you in first person. Repeating you.
A sea of heads surrounds the idol.
°
His hollow hull, that
Body to be
wrought & rotted in the same instant.
Unblinded, blue
sun affixed to blinding heaven
Reverses the terms of exile.
So convulse.
Sound against language, Jerusalem.
Empire, to rhyme with
Fire, carries sound to the point of resistance.
As Babylon
sends sounds to sands.
After A
Man
sound fades faster than light.