Friday, July 14, 2017

Robert Duncan

x: It’s Spring. Love’s Spring.
                                                  The April stirring
      not to be denied.  Inert
      wonderings try me.
And I am very Death that lusts after all men;
that straight and crooked draws into his ken
      all bright live eyes
      to wive.  Avidly.
The mind possesses them. Another life!
To trick the inevitable weather.
To spring the catch:  but the catch
      springs up from the song
long as the year, an engagement, lifelasting,
      even distracted . . .

It is a melody skirted, a configuration
      — as in Schönberg’s Serenade —
a blossoming in shame, almost seen
      or heard, but never . . .

an exact other melody of the strings
      that art refuses to render
And so — unrenderd —
      we are torn apart
— as April rips the weather of our hearts —
      longing from longing:
we could not afford,  or lovewise devise
      the cost
      that sustains us.

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