I could see there was no one actually gathered in the place.
There was no regulation or foresight thumping to its core.
To me the place looked to be clipped and drained of its lard
and it would not speak to my hair. Still, the light came
with its own affection and in that way the same light can
sometimes appear again. Not that I was blessed, but eventually
the people did appear. At first they were too much together,
too much beside themselves, and so there was no choir,
no mattering, or fist to be the same in. No sooner did we
lie down together then I began to grow apart from them.
It was only then I could see the place—the whole place
and with its black rims drawing me near. To me each rim
and a plum without existence. To me the plum smeared upon a sail.
To me the sail is black, cadmium black, and so the sail was cut from the place.
To me contiguous and doubtful and with its own true minotaur beings.
To me contiguous and doubtful until nothing can move
And that now the seasons grow indifferent.
To me the place, at once virgin and morose, because there is no place.
And that it will not return, not until I wash myself before
the place. To me the place hid a gland among the people and so
there was this stink about the place. And that now these same people
graze upon it. To me the place consuming all it can, only not yet shattering,
not yet aghast, like a dry rose nailed inside a cabinet.
To me the place must have a cabinet, a cabinet to sail through,
only we mustn’t go inside. To me we go inside just to keep
from seeing the place. To me the place.