The pilot alone knows That the plot is missing its Eye. Why isn't this "ominous science" itself afraid, a frayed Identity? Pray, protagonist — Prey to this series of staggered instants. Here the optic Paints its hole, its self-consuming moment. It is speech, dispelled, that begs to begin to ache. So that wind accelerates to wound, a dead sound enlivened by the visitation of owls. As pallid as parallel, the cry Of the negative is not the negative of the cry — an irreparable blessing — A green world's "sibilant shadows" where The syllables of your name are growing younger. As involuntary as involuted, "who" returns its noun to each tender branch That noon breaks into no one. Point of view Hovers, a circular cloud, over evacuated Time. That heard its herd bellow below the terraced cities, the milled millions as sold as unsouled, ghost-cargos. A symptom of the Maddening — Woman undressed of her flesh. Man's address to Thou, & the flag of Thou. How the fallen state Meets the starry horizon, veil against witness, hunger against void. O, oldest outermost Other — Ageing mask Of the transparent Earth. Unspeculated image Streaked with mirror & stricken words. You are neither the torn, nor the thorn. You are the many-petalled melting point of repeating decimals. . . Receiver, river Has been burned into voice, a day-dark ribbon. All signal is this Single.
From Trance Archive: New and Selected Poems by Andrew Joron. Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Joron. Used by permission of City Lights Books. All rights reserved.