What has been brought to a finish
I do not want to see, face.
Watch the earth as a heavening ball
wound in hand to press the land,
be stumped. The works are alive.
And say, Drop your plans in waves of
thought wider than rift at the edge
of widening pact. Haul on reason
and snap. When did the change turn up
that makers found their materials
twins to matters? When did
we enter? Caught now awake
simultaneous inside and out there, nevermore
the need for such a travel, poised at the point
of a work in light lines of blood.
World, worlds, the shout vision of just another
ball wavers in the void of edged weights.
Nights the battery juice peers over the coiled prow.
I have an answer collection, patent leaning.
I lean a ledge on which apples are painted.
I jingle all histories in my anchor pocket
and stand by a window of birds erased by trunks.
Happiness calls from the cold mines beneath my sanity.
And wonder is a twine of wands lodged
to spine of nothing I know at least to hold.
Clark Coolidge, 1990
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