Maybe far off to the side.
Maybe far off subject.
But where does it really come from?
From which of the narrowest cracks does it arise?
From blind dangerous alleys of dissimilarity —
from the ruptures, the intervals, spaces between.
From the contact of inner with inner.
What to forget, what to merit, as yet unknowing.

Joining
through corners and nodes and worlds.
This music of secret instincts,
unreasonable nonimitative meaning
bearing no name and revealing no face.
To dig through to a new heaven
from the foothills of a new earth
with the force of clay gone shapeless,
of molten steel
no longer laying bridges
of bowing to tyrannical
genetic coherence of days.
A reality left free of total censor
takes only what is given:
the strictures of simplicity,
the cracks within the manger
beneath the sentry tower of the regime.

Maybe no one’s capable
of fully understanding
when something doesn’t rush to show itself
and doesn’t dare capitulate,
entrenching itself in the fracture of changes
in the name of re-
submissiveness
to civilization’s sibyls.