Marked a finish line with the Desert Poem "( Kiln )" and that is that ( deserted ):
... series the
fingertips, evictions, of months
of projections / of
monthsbent
everyone chipped scalds
off the car, out
in this repeating
mar / I stay noise ...
/
From SF Moma lingering: Leon Golub's "Mercenaries"
David Park's "The Figure":
/
Been into the Oppen. His certainty, the detailing, Poundian appreciation of the bucolic ( stripped of the Japanese and re-set into the urbans of America ), the omnitemporal ( yet/thus elegiac ) quality of the poet's treatment of objects and processes, a comprehension that is itself poetic, with little assumed or illegitimate prolificacy, things are just this important.
"...The distinction of what one does
And what is done to him blurrs
Bodies dream selves
For themselves
From the substance
Of the cold..."
"...How forget that? How talk
Distantly of 'the People'?
Who are the people? that they are
That force within the walls
Of cities...
Possible
To use
Words provided one treat them
As enemies --Ghosts
Which have run mad
In the subways
And of course the institutions
And the banks...
And not only victims, and they may have come to the end
Of all that, and if they have
They may have come to the end of it..."
"Parallel lines do not meet
And the compass does not spin, this is the interval
In which they do not...
In which things explain each other.
Not themselves..."
"...More in it
Or seem to,
It is our home.
Wolves may hunt
With wolves, but we will lose
Humanity in the cities
And the suburbs, stores
And offices
In simple
Enterprise....
It is a place.
Nothing has entered it.
Nothing has left it.
People are born
From those who are there. How have I forgotten...
How have we forgotten
That which is clear, we
Dwindle, but that I have forgotten
Tortures me..."
