Nov 142013
 
This spirit of mine is something unstudied, 
Inexorable and white, alive in solemn permanence.
~~Lord Dermond


To forget about the self at the self's
Uttermost extent;  it is the self
Made a self at last.
 
To survive in vigor
The confinement of the eye,
The glistering pinhole through which
 
The self is summoned
As by a bronze gong
Until all the air is peacock feathers
 
Is one way--in wild trial--
That the self, and its amiable 
Particulars may be forgotten.
 
Cheered onward in a doubtful dark
By numerous rumoring murmurs
And silken sibilances, as if

Drawn on by a forceful river
Tumbling a blind man downstream
To the sound of thickening confusion

Is another way for the self to go,
On and on, on and on,
In dark discovery.
 
To feel our broadening sexual silks
Pulled and pulled, as through
A pinhole, through the self
 
And out of the self and into
Another, and that self flowing 
And pulling as if a river until
 
Our colors lay piled and swollen
Before our adoring, a silken sail
Full-bellied with desiring--
 
A wind that moves through the self 
The self had left behind and abandoned
On the shore of no more.
 
Dead or dreaming, the self
Disappears, and in its place,
In the place of the self spilled out
 
Of itself, displaced and streaming,
(The self that had left its eye behind
Like an abandoned portal,

The self that had had an ear
And has an ear no more, bereft, as it was,
Among night voices in a dark place,

The self that had had a sex
Torn away in a shimmering wind
Until the self has a self no more)--
 
There is only this, this fathomless
Wildness without a where
Without a how, without a why,
 
Only this this,--in the place of that,
Nearby, nearly here,
In the place of the place and in place of it.

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