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She lay so still that as she spoke a spider spun a seamless web upon her body as we spoke and then her limbs came loose one by one and so my own
From Thread, published by New Directions. Copyright © 2011 by Michael Palmer. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
It is scribbled along the body Impossible even to say a word An alphabet has been stored beneath the ground It is a practice alphabet, work of the hand Yet not, not marks inside a box For example, this is a mirror box Spinoza designed such a box and called it the Eighth Sky called it the Nevercadabra House as a joke Yet not, not so much a joke not Notes for Electronic Harp on a day free of sounds (but I meant to write "clouds") At night these same boulevards fill with snow Lancers and dancers pass a poisoned syringe, as you wrote, writing of death in the snow, Patroclus and
Who is to say that the House of Tongues is not that place where rats swarm around your feet under blooming sofas is not that place of poisoned snows, pens run dry and secrets now too late to know and certainly the murmuring there below was a mur- was a mur- was a murmuring almost to be heard a bubbling like water invisible, underneath And look the shadow of a wing does fall here as blood does drink deeply of itself and does whisper yes for no Once these faces behind glass might have returned your glance might even have gathered up their limbs, in order to stand Who i
Write this. We have burned all their villages Write this. We have burned all the villages and the people in them Write this. We have adopted their customs and their manner of dress Write this. A word may be shaped like a bed, a basket of tears or an X In the notebook it says, It is the time of mutations, laughter at jokes, secrets beyond the boundaries of speech I now turn to my use of suffixes and punctuation, closing Mr.