Book IV

 

The dawn-y rise of streaks, a puff enormous, silver
edge of rain dropped from the Dictionary of the Pivotal--
this is talking to you? Unknown land, unknown way, along
a plot? a point? “I” “Rainbow” “air time”
wandering phantom of another life.
These words don't count, these rhythms writhe,
this range is wronged, so bye-bye and
depart from? out? beyond?
words width, wish length, what words worth where
the discontented sojourner on the road's watery
surface finds Pinhole Specks of light in labyrinthine misery,
for under the breathless
wilderness of clouds two Butterflies, black and bright sprinklings,
settle matching upside-down to right-side down, their
yellow middle parts conjoined, and flash a double con tinu ous worm,
being at earnest in a place the wind could hardly
turn, and so, tossing in sunshine on the narrow stalk, they fucked
and pulsed and this was here, these butterflies and this heated air in which
something created intricacy of its own whirlwind, intimate
vortex of time's heartbreaking precipice.

 

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