Last house on Holland Island, not a doll’s house | pelicans gather on its ruined roof, the door is still there, the door is | closed | no other | houses around, and soon | so soon…

There is a wooden church in the snow, its back is broken by light, a short | tower has no bell, hoar frost | grips the trees nearby | in jeweller’s pincers | when the light | has finished crushing the church | the trees will look different, and the plain | have fewer obstructions to its emptiness

Interest in the waterfall has declined, our hotel | pillows its head in moss | when we wake | slugs are gradually skating across their trails of ice | an intricate choreography | Jets pass over with their lofting roar, young lovers with dark eyes and gazes | so serious (if only | they knew) | sensing the taut | space | between her elbow and his fingers, and the battle of the alert and | sensitive | threads of mercury | fitted to slivers in greenhouse thermometers | are caught from their dream, as we are | all of us caught | and slipped into the vast “otherwise”, home for every thing that exists and does not | exist…

Last house in the summer, the other houses | have migrated in herds | they have taken our lovers, they have taken our children, but we | have stayed here | in the last house of the summer

Columns from antiquity, white columns, in the train station in disputed Sukhumi | are greened by ivy and creeping plants | We sleep in the promenade, our necks | develop aches, the war | scares all the trains and passengers away, so we rush | to the last house in Arcadia, last | beds in the last | house on Holland Island, no other | beds around, and soon | so soon…

They have taken our childhood, taken our beautiful sisters with the limbs | of naiads and ballerinas | they have dipped the trains in poison, the churches, too | and the fluttering, suffocating forms of fairies | in bell jars | their skin turns blue and the glisten of their wings | mutes and fades | browns off, shrivels and shatters

Interest in the war has declined, interest in the victims, the soldiers, the orphans, survivors | has declined | There is no power in the last | house in the war, no heat, no running water, and the lovers have fled | to the hotel by the waterfall, the mirrors | in their ornate frames of gilt | are huge, like hung lakes, so the lovers | are happy, they may always | glance over to look at themselves | their young bodies forever on the edge of | a muscular and angelic fudge | into the necks and the beating wings of swans, interest in the war has declined and the great | “otherwise” has come over the region, otherwise | people would care and would remember, which clearly | they do not

Last house in a moment, last house in the love, before the love | cools and moves on | migrates and mutates | last | chance to glance into the mirror before | interest in the waterfall declines and the hotel closes | the gas creeps in, the seahorses | are washed up and dry out and wither, last | house on Holland Island, the door is still there, a white door, the door | is closed

And Kolmanskop in Namibia | boomed for diamonds, otherwise | it would have remained a nondescript town, of negligible | population and status, but the diamonds | were aroused, the settlers | craved them, and Kolmanskop boomed

They have taken the diamonds, the diamond fields declined, Kolmanskop | was abandoned, the desert | came for the town, and the town | was mated with the desert, swilled with it | devoured, in part | consumed

In the last | house in Kolmanskop, sand like flooding seas fills each room, the light, the powerful | light of the sun | which only hours before had been | working in the north | breaking the spines of lonely and remote | country churches | warms the sand to a delicious gold, and tilts the dream | of diamonds back | to the time of boom when our greed was close | to ecstasy, otherwise | Kolmanskop is visited | only by tourists and photographers, although soon, so soon…

Last house in the forest, last forest on the ship | interest in the future | declined, interest in the tragedy | declined, the | yacht’s svelte hulk | under the water and the Arctic ice | declined, the | widows, the wounded, the street kids, the butchered, interest | declined | and the young fled | leaving Sukhumi’s train station | stripped of dalliance and flirtation | of tender hearts beating erratically | at the taste of breath, the utter | alien moves needing to be made, the clear air | intensely lucid and entirely | lacking in stage | directions, and no | young lady or gentleman | gazed into the bridal abyss | of the last | diamond in Sukhumi | the situation was otherwise, and all | the weddings are elsewhere

Last poem in the world, last world in the words | last roll of the waves, the dice, the waves | Last house on Holland Island, a doll’s house, and in | that doll’s house there is | a doll’s house, and all the dolls | are elsewhere, otherwise | the swatch of diamonds would be desired, interest | in inedible things | has declined, in | banknotes, in | the future, interest | has declined, and all the people | are elsewhere, making their kiss | central, their child’s | education | the cat’s | Chinese slumber, their orgasm | central, interest | in the future has declined, otherwise | why are the maimed and the broken | left to their wounds and their grief?

There is no | power in the last | words in the house | the fields | are depleted | and the gaudy, grand poem itself | is abandoned | left to the pelicans and the ticks and whirs | of a quantum clockwork running down, the rooms and the memories | are vacated, even the mirrors | with their eyebrows of slugs | glow only with a tide | of ebbing lust, and of flowing void | There is no | belief in the last | worth of the word, Look, look ahead, the poem | is otherwise, is over | and all the eyes are elsewhere

 


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