"Existence written inside existence

Thirsting like a man the mighty doors,
   presumed by a bony supplicate, hope
In early spring he
   hides it
The landscape of presence alters to death
   in the eyes
Nothing so departed as
   an initial or a life, making a
      late memory
Between these lives and those
    lives
Between this side and that
      side
Anterior sides in little memory, where initials
   wander
He has walls
What is this? It isn’t ear,
    it isn’t memory.
There he is,
   an audible bachelor in
      a side
Late cave beside it
    on a side
It could be that it is to
   lean on a
      late afternoon, a visible
         usher, an impotent guide, love, a
            great breath, a queer exponent
               whose door is big, contenting on a
                  cloud   listening beneath a wall
Its thigh a life in the
   sunset
There he can be an
   exponent though he remains like an
       usher
Now the departed doors hide
   in the breeze
An ear is late
He is no act, though for
   weeks he has born turns, acted routines
      with his limited
         body and seen his creation stoop
He sings it creation of
    conceptions
He continues among the numbers of the
   house
Behaving special peculiar
    existence from over limited exceptional creation
While he playacts it, a sort of institution, looking,
healing, like peculiar
acts."

--Robot X, 463.


Syzygys. (via Metafilter)