‚Befinden wird isoliert‘. — Johannes Jakob Hrodebertsohn
…And bright inside this space, though outside lightfall?
The spillage of streetlamps does not cross the screens
of these encroaching borders, yet a door still opens:
into what? An inner courtyard behind eyelids opened,
as a fruit cut orange-wise into its quadrants
retains itself. I speak? A voice is always
dumb to mirror what it is and I retain reflections-
as one thing unreflected centers to itself.
Perhaps a while from now a world of purple flowers
strobes the wall that hides behind my island vision,
as a universe spilling through revolving doorways;
it does not matter much, it does not care.
My strawberry pear, mine now yet wanting always
a means to fix its distance, but it has no choice,
beside an inland cloud that shifts its patterned skyways,
but mine the silent register that mouths your voice:
an aniseed waltz that swings towards repletion,
the image of thinking in its own repass:
the thingness of which becomes its own completion,
a glass of absinthe in a world of glass.
And it is mine and you are my pitaya,
and it is still not mine and not of ‘My' the mass
I make and don't make for a glass of absinthe:
still life of dragonfruit and absinthe glass.
The points of my eyes behind the light white flowers,
the couch my harder garden you are my pitaya-
hylocereus costaricensis, no…
the yellow skinned one, megalanthus:
her heraldic armature of felted vulvas
circulating on their own blind sun.
There was a cactus once that held your brothers.
I scoop out you and see your eye, pitaya;
its beads are sown all across no centre:
but the centre is all ways; far across the nebula
all shutters up the milk that falls at fluttering
of a star, through eyes that shadow forth as stars.
And yet the taste is bland, less bland than tears, that pressed
on days without falling: now a fall through water.
Her flesh is white, and yet the green seems whiter,
and I find more sweetness in her bitterness.
Eternity beats for just a single season,
where the shade or substance beat a deadened drum-
the thingness óf which is its own repletion,
My finger rounds it all, and this completion
makes of its circuit of a rim one sum
of just an absinthe glass, that drifts towards depletion;
it is all it is, and yet it matters none.
I have not crossed inward to the birth of sunbursts,
that match their shadows through the panes of day:
but if a mask flash tranceward it can catch horizons,
as the lights outside, that do not mirror me.
Eternity lasts for just a single season,
whose second passed and yet no second is:
that sightless sphere the sea of listless verdure,
pear-shaped underneath a lamp-shaped sun-
where moons dissolved, a crack in glass a fissure
in a skyline clear as waves, that fail to fleet-
no tides my outward; there was no such wind
to mirror mind. The floats of Fall meet many
falls before they sift, from tourneys of the air.
It was just a dream, yet for the little warning
I've still wound up somewhere, and I have no fear.
…And somewhere stranded in the blanks of trance
is the hiding place, where I keep finding me.
Still eternity, sleeping through a single season,
as I shadow onward, tracking ‘eye' through ‘I',
is paceless as the gait that strays through reason;
no tides turn under the transparence high
above the blank equator just an eye can pass-
refractions of a dragonfruit and absinthe glass.
We sip, and slip awhile through infinity,
and do we die in dreaming: do we dream we die?
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