One more swirling thing to pass my eyes,
one more spindled flower-holder, lathed
and florid in itself like one more
twisted macram‚ or one more lying
senator, one more renovated car or
college amphitheatre, lifted I would be
and turned, no doubt, but loose,
spindled to describe like the earth
a sifting, formulated place on some
light scan of space, the sun a shift,
the moon a pendant only, no more
essences, no more fragments only
to imply what we must know. For what
could any purpose hold if all we speak
of now is that we speak, if all we lean
and breathe our spaces full of air for
is the breathing? We are rope-burned,
and to hold or let go is deadly,
for some ropes crack like a rifle
so two thousand people lose fingers.
Children fall and cry the new absences
of their frames, the hands not
their hands. The rope is frayed open
for foot upon foot, exploded with
the pulling pressure. Parents calm
down enough to sue for many years.
I need a rope, a place to stand,
someplace to pull to. My reasons are
mysterious to strain over these new
and reassuring nylon strands. I watch
their twist, await their sudden
irreversible lurch, the noise.