marking time to shed the voice layer
that boxes ceremonial confidence
continuing up the incline in spite of knowing
that to let the moment catch
the sharpness that wouldn't get there
executes its run beside the chorus
as the fallen weakest collapsed simplicity
letting the past ear spill over being taken to the power sail
scripting the rods as hopelessly external:
enlarge the right to open words too early,
to pace the pretending load behind the fact
that half the sunlight obviously fails to stop the voice knife
from quoting the siege as though the collected weight of wings
is not identical with swinging to the glance
to populate the quest exactly where
the captured wooden instrument roars its leaving song
in range of the physical damage:
the body less remote is still mechanical,
nervous to resist by inventing blindednesses
that stick inside the lungs while controlling the surge
of each other's turning past the sense where someone blooms
to shatter through the picture
of hanging there centered by accident
locked away from the channel into where to zero the rain
in ways to hit the facts complete
for how the night mocks knowing how to stop along the rigging
with a hole where anything parallel to remembering music
drowns along the losing shake

Jim Rosenberg's home page o Poetries o Linear Works o The Winding Interval