The Poem you can’t understand
… is not a poem
Some trespassers are collecting dead leaves in my back yard
So heavy is the wire, I see from my window—a mockingbird cannot find rest on it…
That heavy is that wire
A speed car goes with lights on against the Sun
Its driver compassionately turns the corner
& there is no street corner there
That speedy the car was
Don’t do this at home
‘To imagine a language is to imagine a form of life.’
Wittgenstein
Keep the air under palm,
Let it press your hand & spread fingers:
No relief though—unless the Zephyr performs acts of his own
Do not count beads as droplets pouring from stratosphere:
This kind of matter is but metaphor
And no metaphor dwells where the Being dwells…
Imagery’s pocket is full of metaphors—cohorts of lost corpses.
& bet only on the “square-thumbed marble-player.”
He is the only one who knows the path
From the mountain high down to the temple’s heavenly elementary particles
