mouth and hand strange themselves
the heart. the letters bound, the
water drawn, the very blood
does not spring. and the legs of the
(how will it be called? -- mind
soul life? -- something
multisyllabic? -- consciousness? nu
-s?) the legs themselves
lose in a foreign terrain
of dance steps.
I examine
the ancient earthened footprints, checking
for vital signs, figuring height
weight diet mating-habits
fear loves literature
metaphysics. and I'm petrified.
as for mother, dance to
yearns the body for heart; but as for
my mother she's terrified I'll
forget to speak
her tongue. giving hand
new blood's not mere addition but
binding displacement
replacement transfusion
transparting.
now
for it what is mouth as yet
refuses--yammering away
homely you see--to bite
itself off but
How the bloody pumping
pushes my brood balking of limbs! my pulp
public will build
up new cities! I pledge
beside the sweet shtetls with their
haggling fruitstands and gossiping news, I'll surge
together cafes for
stirring esotericas verging forth into the
(how will it be?) the (where is it?)
the (?) heart-land
(this kind of poem
-ing can't end but only
cease--and so too the silence
after) volumes may prevent my
frostbite.
what hand
will bind, mouth must
translate.