What I've Come to Discuss

What I’ve come to discuss is mostly about shadows
and the airs left behind in caring, discarding,
the long inhibitions of whereso and when.
Alabaster, a dark quire, in its many pages and premises
the maze, from which move
tendrilled purples and contusions, magnificent
fuchsia receivers of false content,
the splayed flower, arterial, like the premise of a door
is where it leads to or from. Communication
of vessel, vial, capsule, hull, a tiniest nil
fires the neurons from their swooning stall,
is not a healing but adaptation to same
a quickening in deleting of sensation
a prior sizing. Stacked leaves (green shadows)
are givens in the columned garden, what work is needed
to determine that shape? Some hysteric
trope of repetition, rage for accretion,
dazed by its own mute replication,
like the minute lines of a hand. They are
its cries (writes Ponge, among others),
the tongue inseparable from its utterance (langue).
We weep to hear it, a language forgot.
I was saying I keep speaking
from some chamber sound deleted, which is why
I never call or write. In that theatre are many eclipses
and moons refracted in pinholes and wheels
wherein revolve astonished birds, and the Queen of Night
sleeps a rest restorative and profitable, and
andante allegro, the dead ships never sail.