The waves are raw and without compassion | and so we adore them | Plain things | without adornment | more plain than is bearable | certain things | true things | calm in their perfection | and so | we adore them | The greatest loneliness awaits us | plain boxes | plain spaces | in the earth | aisle seats | waiting rooms with no | opt-out clauses | what happens when the night | comes to rest and the bed | so full for so long | is empty | children’s footsteps | strung up in dry straw | impressions in coarse or fine | beach sand | and the dunes | collecting and fading under the pitiless | tumult of the skylarks | empty and the sound of | pattering feet on | hot concrete | the true things | the plain | things | For years, I thought I loved, but then | I loved | and it can happen, such things | can happen | Draw back the skin over the flesh | reveal the plains beneath | and shiver when we reach the shore | summer and cancer and the words | most of them | quite unsayable | or said | as other words, less | honest, less | beautiful words, but | what we could manage | and your warmth | bleeding into the cold water, drop by drop | and the time | passing on the faces of watches | on our phones’ displays | as we waste our moments, crushing | ice and salt and lustre | into the ocean | adding nothing to the raw waves | how could we? |

We make way for the waves | bow our heads though we don’t believe it | They come without fanfare | without superfluous | introductions | Elaborate upon our spines, couched in | skulls’ measure | we sacrifice words to the waves | even our speechlessness | isn’t enough | the waves’ bareness, insatiable and beyond | parsing | breaks and breaks | and is never | broken | This loneliness | doesn’t wait and has no | reasons to care for us | but comes as | lightning to conductors | giving the landscape illumination | but no record | housing the storm | and casting it out | emptying the eye | even as it fills | and leaving us gaping | in a gaga wisdom | in leaping | instants of brilliance | seeing nothing | adoring what kills | just now | in the perfect | time of its killing

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

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