Spine to Spin, Spoke to Speak

The pilot alone knows
That the plot is missing its

Why isn't this "ominous science" 
   itself afraid, a frayed

Pray, protagonist —
Prey to this series of staggered instants.

Here the optic 
Paints its hole, its self-consuming moment.
It is speech, dispelled, that 
   begs to begin to ache.

So that wind accelerates to wound, a dead sound
   enlivened by the visitation of owls.

As pallid as parallel, the cry
Of the negative is not the negative 
   of the cry — an irreparable blessing —

A green world's 
   "sibilant shadows" where
The syllables of your name are growing younger.

As involuntary as involuted, "who"   
   returns its noun 
   to each tender branch
That noon breaks into no one.

Point of view
Hovers, a circular cloud, over evacuated

That heard its herd bellow below
   the terraced cities, the milled millions

   as sold as unsouled, ghost-cargos. 

A symptom of the Maddening —
Woman undressed of her flesh. 
Man's address
   to Thou, & the flag of Thou.

How the fallen state
Meets the starry horizon, veil 
   against witness, hunger against void.

O, oldest 
   outermost Other —

Ageing mask 
Of the transparent Earth. Unspeculated
Streaked with mirror & stricken words.

You are neither the torn, nor the thorn.

You are the many-petalled
   melting point of repeating decimals. . .

Receiver, river
Has been burned into voice, a day-dark ribbon.
All signal is this 

From Trance Archive: New and Selected Poems by Andrew Joron. Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Joron. Used by permission of City Lights Books. All rights reserved.