The angels of order are endlessly seeking to assert a reality, but all they succeed in doing is constructing boxes or pockets of emptiness | a sublime domain | beyond the powers of assertion to enter | As the angels of order proceed, so moment by moment the pockets of assertion collapse, thereby instituting a new vacuum | the willow trees moving in the wind | Just as we are created by the angels of order, so we are addicted to their activity, which has become a form of drug or obsession for us | Simultaneously an opiate and a stimulant, this SENTENCE holds us

In imbalance, our gift | What the sea gives to our touch, and what our touch / gives to the sea | Falling into a hazy sleep | a gorgeous inequality / Perhaps in a kiss or a shy gesture | a secret desire to rectify | towering differences, the snowstorm inside the moment, the moment | rushing through the years

 


from the sequence of 100 poems, sentence (2012–present, in progress)
(this poem, June 2012)

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