from Night and Words

By candlelight
the words
were losing all reality
that bit of weight that drags in their hems
as they hang from the iron S's
the carcasses and their flies.
Fabrication
        —almost a lie.
The tingling of the tin plate
flatterer of emptiness.
Masquerade
        —almost a lie.
Rings of smoke like souls
take away the breath
of a faint enthusiasm
without a voice or past.
Fog
dust
nothing
The ephemeral.
How to withstand
        the ignominy?
The inanity of saying
just words
sea   mustache   bingo   blue fields   caves
rings       books       breakfast
                                                      train
                                                                       sword
Nothing is nothing
Close your eyes tight until
the blue
overflows the glass
"Here, drink.
Let's toast to everything. And give
the credit to silence. Here
you have it."
The inanity of saying
just words
cradle   extension   tribe   grass   minstre   ditch
                                                                                colophon
A hollow
inflated
by the felicitous gymnastics of pronouncing
the echo of a past
        —the final blow of the corvina's tail
against the dry sand.
Guts
have guts
Let's withstand
        in the illusion of THE LIGHT
the words
will die far away
perhaps in the bend
where desire embraces memory
before the somnambulent gaze
        of an indifferent or mordant other
"There's no plot," I said.
"No intrigue or ending."
Only the return. There's no
possible scaffolding. The night
nonetheless
withstands.
Against all gravity, the night
withstands.
It inevitably
        withstands.