I think then I live in a world of silence. The language has become lodged in itself a background, wall of rock, black and resistant as basalt, then sometimes as viscous as heavy grease, poetry must be reached into and rested from in a cry. Meaning is now a mixture, it recedes to itself a solid fix of knowledge. The words of poems, once rested from the mass, cry shrilly and singly, then spring back to that magnetic ore body of silence. The longest poem has become a brief crack into light and sound. The candle flame through the sliver hums but must be tricked, wrested out for a mere tick in the radium dark. The rest is all a walk in stillness, on the parade of the times of meaning. Or is this all still the highest ledge?
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Clark Coolidge:
A NOTE
I think then I live in a world of silence.
The language has become lodged in itself a background,
wall of rock, black and resistant as basalt, then sometimes
as viscous as heavy grease, poetry must be reached into
and rested from in a cry. Meaning is now a mixture, it
recedes to itself a solid fix of knowledge. The words
of poems, once rested from the mass, cry shrilly and singly,
then spring back to that magnetic ore body of silence.
The longest poem has become a brief crack into light and sound.
The candle flame through the sliver hums but must be tricked,
wrested out for a mere tick in the radium dark.
The rest is all a walk in stillness, on the parade of
the times of meaning. Or is this all still the highest ledge?
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