Sunday, September 14, 2014

This is not the post with the words

In which we're elsewhere

It's like if you were looking for the droids -- these would not be the droids you're looking for. The words you want are elsewhere, and if you ever see them, or not, who knows? So many places we could have put the words -- here, or on Modpo, or even the refrigerator. But today, we prefer to let them rest in an undisclosed location, while you wander here. As the frig magnet kits have taught us, there is a closed universe of words, and this is not the time-space continuum they're in today.

Let's let an imagist talk about it, William Carlos Williams in

A Sort of a Song

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
-- through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

Between the words are the spaces. In the spaces are the

When all of your flaws and all of my flaws / Are laid out one by one / A wonderful part of the mess that we made / We pick ourselves undone

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