WINTER ' FOURTEEN
Into my innards as into no other (there is no other than I who can do this) Espousing only the fecund
verb To Be (I will also be thus espoused) – but to their quizzing minds I am already ancient who nonetheless
would place about me a ring of offering stones (hail disciples for your glittering tribute!)
That I be unto you also what I will be unto myself: see my stealth in this, my subversions of the modalities,
my pennant flashing in the air above me.
O defiance!
Yet unto these my little ones…
Unto them as be unto all of us in our needs “yet you will, will you not, acknowledge the dogmas?” I will
not, and if such is to be my transgression, against history no less as has been given from the old days, days
of that woman’s betrayal through the womb of time – metronome of my blood and sinews.
O mothering sea shelter us from history again, the ongoing purge.
As it was in the beginning.
Shall we say… no, no, no – resistance (I have made of it the perfect armour yet I am pierced)
Yet still the living gather about me –questions and accusations– that Greek dilemma as ever it was and
will be. No end to it nor as they quiz my quizzing heart.
That perpetual light may shine and cancel the dilemmas with light abounding
“But surely you…?”
No, no, no – not that I can’t-I can- but I won’t, and see, listen, see the old thunder rumbles again and
nothing is resolved.
Who now will gather the bushels of light? That unto us be born. Also of the low ones of the world. By
which name we might…
The unfinished sentence everywhere low light abounding now just above the trees.
O abundance of leafage, Greekness of perfusion that might be instructed unto the many. For the sake
of which their questions are indulged if not always answered. Greek dilemma I have wandered wittingly into
– I am pierced – the young Angus is the old Balder – “but surely you…?”
No, no, no! Even if the garden be despoiled, bright apples that I… Approvingly. And so to walk these
formless paths I shall remake (not a stone will go unnoticed) Already I am plotting against the dilemmas. O
brightness of this my angelic rebellion!
Sweet day that you are no brevity could be as nice. Good affirmations. Question the body so as to
question the soul. Not every answer is a finality. Scallop of the pilgrimage city that I carry into the hard
intractable day. Opening that does not always close.
As aforetime is not necessarily hereafter. The border of the body shifts into the border of the soul –
what border has chaos?
Soul the unformed substance. I have none that is not the body’s delight in this intractable world.
Word of the world.
Apples to pluck for sustenance where the tree of knowledge is the tree of exile. Exiled into the world
(and after this our exile show unto us…).
Show.
Shall I tell you oh shall I tell you?
Yes do.
Tell one, tell all for there is no fortitude in silence that will feed you to the bone and then some. Flowing,
The Linnet's Wings