Sous Rature



         Christophe Casamassima                                     




                                                                                                                                        the silly word in exile

                                                                                                                                        it says in the dictionary
                                                                                                                                        the whole process is a lie

                                                                                                                                        his lines the variable pitch
                                                                                                                                        that craved no sound and the rain
                                                                                                                                        you will not easily get rid of it
                                                                                                                                        becomes a river in the mind

                                                                                                                                        the shore / exploded away, constructively
                                                                                                                                        such decay, such decay of the senses
                                                                                                                                        no rose is sure

                                                                                                                                        and you wonder how many flowers have fallen
                                                                                                                                        in their veils veiling
                                                                                                                                        the eternally unready

                                                                                                                                        even if it were January or Zukofsky
                                                                                                                                        moral concepts both, curiously linked

                                                                                                                                        the poem that lifts the dish
                                                                                                                                        half asleep with a mind




Stars blow holes in the apostrophes.
the spaces where we take leave of each other.
alphabets. The indentation of this moment
the water walking

what tradition but palimpsest
my desk is my church
is true maybe I will be death
Maybe all dressed up for burial, and then I should
become body, the body moves.

while I’m writing, no more Writing.
                                                                                                                                                                     for words to echo the acts described; or try to. Except very directly
back of the palms drawn to kidneys, kidneys aloof                                                                                         a wrack of voices: “the who?”
that’s—no fault of mine, man                                                                                                                      that various field.
a man. How he could burrow, be swallowed.                                                                                                 and says, “There is something I must tell you!”
                                                                                                                                                                     stretching past erased islands
war and light the same
where saddles keep their know                                                                                                                      it goes on your new underneath
                                                                                                                                                                     and winds follow that crack and bend without breaking
ere the volcano before comparison,                                                                                                                anyway? “I think we may have met before.
and “beyond the boundaries of light”                                                                                                              Another night. The grass
This gift, this which is the alighting
the remembrance of past joys.

my hands and the illusion of falling