To this aspect of a land observed, the roughly finished blank,
a blue sheet of rock falling before sense,
add to that an insignificant effect emotion buries
where it dies, a substance whose nature consists in thinking
with a will, a fuse; rely upon the familiar
bright and brighter and so on through the scale
with no need of place, a range merely
storming surfaces, unlimited division, unbroken ground.
In a chromosphere, our language of colors innumerable,
here we are. We are here, exiled to our native land
between the edges of the visible, far from figured prominences.Wish to be a stone, or close the door, please, said the guide;
how to look involves a method of looking.
*
Over blackened stones, embedded glitter, terms of
rough ascent vanish in conclusion. Predicting,
now we see it, how our touch instructs, heated, shaken,
streams and swarms in the integral domain
dishevel the chemical moment. Across a plain in violent stormsfeverish migrations pile up, a flood of grasses, leaves, trees.
Devoted, reclusive to our senses, the stylus drags
across the surface; hammer home the nanopoint
with no need of place, a range merely
discarding what it touches; model succeeds image,
passing through each possible is and isn't
set speculation to exhaust the universe. Watching is
watching over, devotion to faint stars, counting on; a flight of steps.Margy Sloan
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