"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)