I've spent my life in a lone mechanical whine,
this combustion far off.
How fathomless to be embedded in glacial ice,
what piece of self hiding there.
I am not sure about meaning but understand the wave.
No more Novalis out loud.
No Juan de la Cruz singing 'I do not die to die.
' No solstice, midhaven, midi, nor twilight.
No isn't it amazing, no none of that.
To crow, to crown, to cry, to crumble.
The trees the air warms into a bright something
a bluish nothing into clicks and pops
bursts and percussive runs.
I come with my asymmetries, my untutored imagination.
Heathenish, my homespun vision sponsored
by the winter sky. Then someone said nether,
someone whirr. And if I say the words will you know them?
Is there world? Are they still calling it that?