Baraka Inscape

Not so for my republic nothing left of rule

Nothing left of rule over the salvage self

by way of weapon to sing in sovereign song

no more composed in courage than most

No more than most myself save nothing is

befitting the field with as many futile

stockpiles of opinion so moved to moving

with derision or memory’s abortive

little heap after what I did to injury

Rooms still cold with the stroke of it

Still wreckage a resource like flesh

imputing fingers or lips I made stiller

unavailing even to eager asymmetries

of white where I am when I refute

in the kill zone altered of melodic lines

White in August heap’s disintegrated glass

volcanic at the skeleton edge of that

pernicious unfiltered little self emphatic

for Baraka’s Dusk for Duncan’s Throat

for an advent in mind for the kinfolk

meant by all in the derogative mob

in land-locked earth in antipodes

in eyes-wide noncombatant number

in clay and kiln, in day and bone

in name an “eruption of a counterform

in the closed field of white definition”