Testament

What’s the

difference?

You might

wear it out

touching,

touching, not

buying. Like a

snail on a stick,

you, slow over

it with your tiny

mouth, never

biting. Spiral:

the eye,

the head, the repetition

of thought—omen

omenless. Things—

soft, hard, book,

milk, rogue wheat

in the drive, pidgeons

and all—just

this world and ourselves

in it.

The holy is

otherwise,

nowhere. Where

the not-fog

waits in the

no-valley.

Testament

Fear of loss

is more

common than loss,

a clear stone that tumbles

against its brothers,

a filament

spun from unpronounceable

metals which enters

a hole, fissure,

a tiny camera that swims,

radioactivity

that sprinkles a map

of mystery.

Now I see

so many little

doors I know

we can’t

contain it,

blood’s push

which purifies and

cannot. Dear

fear, hot piece,

are you machine,

animal,

ghost?