divine magnet

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Karen Weiser

 

Pilgrimage

Walk like somnambulists abroad,
hear humming all around
and greet it, costs nothing
but an echo hum inside.
Are you all round?

I & I’m walking but not seeing
what empty lot is walking;

I & I’m circulating greeting
in the freefall of our hum.

What is a moral compass
when the blushing throat is talking?
What is a moral judgment
when languages corrupt?

This is pleasing me
enough to jail my sympathy.
My inner hum walks in woe
enough to hail my sympathy.

No pilgrimage left no more
but transits of the discrete pour

a messmate of the elements
with daedal life in boats and tents.

Precious in substance rudely wrought
habitat, which here is caught:

my paratactic hand
my buzzsaw pauses

my Angel Haze
my Observing Sky;
and here is a moment
the consequence of pivoting.

And here is my cruelty
the consequence of governing.
I & I would be improvingly
If I’d be improving

That stable proof that I would fold
into my drawer, under the lake,
into my compass, into my chart:
it is but made from other things
a music derived from vanishing

Did nearer my roses come
Did nearer my roses die

This vanishing is going low
eclipse a failing sympathy

Did nearer my planet come
Did nearer my planet go
just past where death, a legend,
follows in silence.
How may we be derived from scale?

End in a box in a hole.
End in a drawer in a lake.

This vanishing is going low—
this vanishing is going low.