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under the larches

come spring woods will
tell: from dark mouths of angels
erupts the realm of impulse, its own sop within
the skull, every last branchlet of ash
rendered diamond with ice by double-
crossing elements.  death darkens the world
first, another trashcanned alleyway blooming
through the field of vision, shimmering
with recent rain, shimmering
like language.  does his life hang like
the form of him did, if that’s how he did
it; did each twig of him fall,
oil in the compost, soul’s phenomenology
if he jumped, trunks slicked with wet.
we doodle hangmen.  dripping maples. act
a fault in the code, elm rupture in spoken,
the one field of difference, wood words
erupting from dark mouths of angels.
the world prays with sound. 
with the small feet of rain:

may there congregate woods or words
to encircle him, loosened
from root tongues, from cause, may
they enclose him with glow,
may they ferry him there:
in the wake of his electric passage,
world, brighten. may
his thought be wrought
weightless; angels, may 
you take in his dark:
in light may you bear
him away.
for r.
after pound

Posted 07/15/11
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