Ruins on ruins. Nothing is sanded away. A thing coiled to strike.
Whose walls bore intricate figures, once. We stand overlooking the
Noise and an absolute stillness. Person telling the world.
Cold in the ditch. On which others will write.
To the window. Immerses
Herself in the world, a mirror
Is a mirror is a streetlamp. Under the streetlamp, what solace
Universe cursed. Who sees the event
And goes on seeing in spades. A light burns. A lamp.
In the Faustian darkness
Sorrowful, jealous, bereft. Absurd. Alone
Delirious. Even diseased. Abandoned here, by the road.
Regrets that it cannot attend. Person is
In the series of rooms. The glistening rail. The things polished. And her
And her and her and her
In which objects repeat. A mirror is a mirror is a
Nullified view. Beneath which the stuff,
Possessed. Now stands at a rail and observes.
The queen gives a head. Its parts. One enters
The scene bearing Person. Repeat.
It is Person retelling the world. She sings
To Be Person Against a Blue Sky. What it means
To be used. A device, an event
Of civilization, curbed. Who harbored a light
In Ur? Who harbored a rigorous
Person, who carves with a stick.
The same intricate figures
Shadow the walls. The same dance. Nothing sanded is
Blown from the sky. A plane, spiraling
The dead are dead. We descend
To no flicker of light. If you keep moving
Down. If you hold it upright. She arrives
In whose figures are
Chaos and Mess
And then staggering boredom. This place
Stones and echoes. A loss. Someone’s roar.
Person wielded the instrument. So little
But this. Is green the new
Blood? She learns to remember the things
But what use
Is remorse? Her muscles twitch
As her dreams hover over her,
Fussing. Person resolves to be
Conduit. Mask. As soft as a cat. She wanders the landscape
The permanent curtain. In years, nothing changes
The waxing and waning of fear. She dangles a knife
She forgets. What is over
How far from
The world’s end is how far
From Person’s / vice-versa
Who sees death in her mirror or
Her mind. What passes
It passes for strength. In a shelter. Its rows
Of canned peas. Yellow corn. What a
Supervolcano. She feels wrecked by the thought of her death and of those
It excludes. She dismisses
Her stuff, her to-dos, her curricular
Feats. Person’s pride
Of whose mind
Saw ghosts on the train, saw the doctor drain blood
But the new blood swooped in
Too late. It’s as helpful as ______. When she walked to the house
I have lost my whole life. It lurched. All the tables and chairs, the dear cups
In their cupboards. The lamps. Are we on a kind of ship. Objects
Drained of their meaning. Person
Loath to survive. Person never
Like the sinuous ferns. Leaves piled
And rotting. Person, hauled from her
Nurturing space, is now half.
And again and
The world insists
Oh the noise of the world