Two Prose Fragments, Autumn 2010

[after Ralph Vaughan Williams]

The specimen trees are canons of limbs, entangled at a level with the aerials; they leap by certain rules through a silver circle of sky, beyond prediction. Already displayed, how long these processes ossify, becoming a national literature; yellowing classics whose leaves are turning an autumn movement, in a notation for notianal lovers: the weather woven over their heads and the stubborn light in its pouring after, bound at the inner bound. Their ownerless dust recombines experiential elements, each refulgent bucket of rain reaving a cord in water, capable of emotional content and nothing exempt from the mill of the earth.

(Early November)


***

Thirty-four thousand seconds since beginning, when the sun is small and confined to a bundle of clouds, the spider returns unconcerned to her silk.

There are tendencies of voice stretching from clrestory to pavement; there are processes that hold in a life without architecture. It doesn't matter. After the history of music as a system of thought, indulge me with your tongue: a sensual approach to the intellect, written out backwards. I listen for signals...

... and I can't discover enough. This body of knowledge, rigged with ligaments, will ravel a rope of endings, ephemeral all afteroon in wishful suspension.

(Late October)