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”