The perfection of the snow

 

How many perfections, how many
how many totalities? Stinging, it increases.
And then the abstractions astrifications formulizations of stars
frost bitten, traversing sidera and coelos
frost bitten assimilations—
in the perfected I'd proceed
deep, beyond the dazzle of the full and empty.
I would seek proceedings
set apart, avoiding
the dubious the dark; I'd know I'd say.
But how rich it makes us, what white abundance
what worth: at the foot of the dawn at the foot
of the mountain of fountains of light.
I myself am in the midst of this radial quickening-quiet.

alas the first shivers of ascension, of comprehension,
are ordered, borders that challenge: no further.
And your consolation-insulation and mine,
fruit of this winter, disciplined, delines
the glass vertices of forever, the white margins
of never-never-did-I-leave-you.
And the star that burns in its husk
and the chestnut plucked from the ice
and—all—all eros, all free. freedom
is there in the snare of my embrace:
the invitation, the program, the place, the whole affair.
Amusing, yes? A life liv(ed, id)
for which one can do nothing, about which one can't guess,
(caressed?) at its contour.
Evoè along the ices, the culture of colors,
the reassured workings of gold.
Hello. To whom am I speaking? Disconnect.
And so I am waiting, waxing immortal,
for a sketch-idea of the snow, for its announcement.
Pronto. Hello.
To the, of the perfect.

<<That is all. You may go.>>

 

 

back to issue three

 

 

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