Milk River

By | 16 August 2019

(after Agnes Martin)

can barely stay on it
look at it (now
seeing that I’ve
become frightened of you)
areas of dark white move
like fish beneath
like bruises—rounded, spoken:
submerged garden
pressing to flower after having

border is barely different
but the difference holds
liquid from teeming
(to know I’m afraid
breaks me off in small pieces)
after. noon. relief’s
still house, since. and disks
of milksun cast across cat’s body
which seems a single
darkest bruise—
sunk through with light.

this work.

luckily my eyes see less
and less well, else its
grain would assail me:
photo image in a book
whose spine is not yet
broken (can one come back
from fear? its stream
must drizzle at a pace
integratable in a life—
yes questions of chemistry)

(the way I was so wet, so freshly
painted, with you
—our even pond)

border adjacent to the
pale, central piece. Held Area.
and I see
fingertips not taking
/ approaching: a just approach

to draw sobs.

—sobs from sheer patience
skin’s wait turned auditory

(today, earlier I read
high philosophy (kind, hard) then careened
below and parallel
concrete monument offsetting
sky. to music. flying in thought
through an air we might have named
there’s more and more
I will not have wired to you.)

beats along imperceptible lines,
fine species of metal ear
(my timid, listening eyes
and my person
having named fear)
do not f— this painting
but might avoid it:

held to hold open. its formation,
apparently without noise, inscrutable:

art of ab. stain. ing.
from anticipation
( w/r/t futures’ width metre
saturation tone)

and now: [a list of all the words that sound
the sounds of colourless liquid]

This entry was posted in 92: NO THEME VIII and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.