1.i.21
367
2.1
book of blank pages
into
which everything disappears
so
that these words become secret
dust
in the cracks
a
house is still sleeping
it’s
all night writing
and
morning won’t be seen again
opposite
of invisible ink
everyone
goes there
sometimes
see print through
chase
ghosts
lost
bible – of cross writing
nothing
if not prophetic
the
future is written
in
a book of blank pages
hours,
days of it
close
study
years
beyond me lie here too
put
it down to the rain
an
opening
inkwash
but
every sky’s the same
so
much now
is
our own making
this
is the book of the lost
blank
where the stylus
now
slurry
and
you’re in the mirror again
between
rivers
time
was and whom the war had
so
much of me in these forevers
a
bookmark for a hair
and
all the answered, measured, told
were
us once
peer
deep into the blanks of
a
word becomes another
a
wrestle to fate
my
privilege
and
peering out as well
all
those who have been hidden
they
bubble up now in the book
it
may boil
come
to fire
spread
and seep
lie
waiting
so
any have tried to make a mark
but
this is a book of blank pages
what
you have once desired now vanished
all
lost to the book
the
gone are
kings,
judges decreed
words
hidden under
pillow
for dreams
book
of forgetting
or
some prayer
our
own skins break
some
to earth inscribed
so
many things continue unread
the
garden grows over with light
notes
towards the plan
will
vanish as the book appears
a
library in the garden
some
kind of music for the glue
turn
pages
but
no one can say now
in
the fast approaching
that
baby in the cloud of talc
arms
spastic
head
unlettered
yearning
to breathe free
.
42
in
a firstness
the
od aches resume
as
if without a pause
here
we all are
graphs
and charts
surfeit
of fact
no
one knows how
the
why is further off yet
then
there’s a why within
how
do we have such a question
sacred
to itself
no
one will ever understand?
and
that’s as far as we know
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