Saturday, February 02, 2019

Four poems for Emmanuel Hocquard


As if it could be taught. Sedimentation, the ruins
of elegy, light. So lush. No words

but the imagination.


A word at the heart of it, Runcible Valley deep. A lemon
is difficult. This thread

of disappearance, truth and failure. Thirteen blackbirds.
Distraction. We might be

writing, folding laundry, tending

the orphaned moment. Wait: I am
inventing a machine of usable atoms. It is

those feet, in snow.


How I learned to stop worrying,
and. Fill in the blank. A poem

less than portable. I keep these portraits

of material. Say, a silence. Whittled
to a hush.


Foot paths
confuse the wilderness. The wood:

a sentence, divided. Speak to me. A book

I might forever write. I am
alive, I am alive, I am

impossibly alive. I am most likely dead.

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