TRANSITIVE

transitive

For PB Shelley and W Styron.

“… pierced by the shaft which flies in darkness …” Adonais

1.

The taking and things take other things.

I am softening here in the sun. I am softer.

I am soft. Soft.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

The gooseflesh ornaments my open soul.

ornament and open. Open soul.

Soul.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

I left my children without sufficient

food. They feed. They are not sufficiently

feeding.  Lamps.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

The seduction of property, having and having.

Can this be enough for any given moment?

Any given. Given. Enough?

Let me tell you the story

What hangs like a 40-watt bulb and swings

on a wire that lights it and hurts

hurts like hearts?    Hurt.

Let me tell … Let me … Bill

Someone somewhere is falling somewhere. Someone

somewhere, not here, not me, not me. The thin

thin thin thin.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

The occasional music of hand and hand. And

hand and hand and hand and hand. The occasional

music of.

Let me tell you … Let me tell.

The sealed envelope of her lips, the letter of her

tongue, the postage eye, the gum of even her least

look: My finger is a knife in that crease.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

I’ve seen enough of the Ace of Diamonds. I have seen

it enough, enough and enough of the Ace of

Diamonds.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

The cranzle the slottle the sizeable orf, the tuning

of sissel and shrieking of    of    Why does the

phone ring just when I’ve started?

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

That’s hero falling into my sleep. hero falling

I thought to have avoided this … He  ro    fa   ll   ing

hero into my sleep.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

The catastrophe which seems to be love. When    and

when again they are always touching me.  Noli

Me tangere … Catastrophe.

Let me tell you the story story.

How often have I been just almost been? Let me

Let me thingg … I have just almost been … the

most recent time was.

Let me    Bill     Let me tell you the story.

But not necessarily in that order, not necessarily,

not when the hand reaches to move me just one

square to the right and two forward.

Let me tell you the story of Bill.

Bill

2.

I am not even alone when I dream.

Who is that who looks into it?

Who is looking into it?

I have moved far from my self and from water.

I thought that when I walked down the street,

I was close to the air, but no.

I am in this chamber. It seems to be

windowed on one side. Everything in the world

has to be in front of me to be in the world.

The blurring of the edges of the sketches of myself.

I cannot keep from originating this gesture I make with

my hand. This one. And there it is again.

And so I see why I am often caught

in a funnel of birds

because those birds are my very own hands.

I have been feeding them and I have been

the woman I see who strolls through

the afternoon park and feeds my hands, which

are her birds.

I cannot think that it means much to her.

Only something to spend a time. But in spite of

the time, they are my hands.

Can the world get darker? It can get darker. When I

close my eyes the world gets darker. I have decided

to close my eyes. World get darker.

Does anyone care that I am only human that I feel

the pressure of the dimmest light? Does anyone care?

Does anyone care, my hands are birds?

When I fly up in the highest sky, when I fly up …

but not today. Not today. I am falling    falling.

I have fallen into my very own pockets.

But this is the slaying and it is the slaying time

and I can see that it is the slaying time and …

where has the time gone?