For Jacques Roubaud

Fate feels you twitching:
the shapeless mass of plain denial.
Yet there is nothing plainer. 
No thing more real.

In metered dance, the tongue becomes a patient lance of the ineffable.
A frost forms on the words; we fail to dream
beyond the confines of the load.

at the mouth of the river

little may

little may

dream thought through time 

What force cradles time

with such magnitude
as that offered in the depths
of the dream? 

little may
awaken time

(I drag a comb
through the silt
at the mouth of the river
floor to scavenge
for a miracle)

in a fractal prison of fractal hopes 

with curtains drawn

in a tapestry of imploding lights

(Plush fabric of a miracle

         with such uncertain terms)


little may
little may

offer a soul with a form thought may feel
(as if sense were born beyond the body)

little may
be the soul of sense that time cannot erase

(but what is thought?)

nothing.

a mechanical framework of infinite forces
exerted upon infinite strands

an unraveling forest

little may
little may

(but what is thought?)

little may
awaken time in

an unraveling flourish