i hate poems that end

but that is our idea of perfection--all that is necessary
and nothing more //// but i , at once. need everything,

i meant to visit that certain strain of stillness--where you remember having experienced meaning--and called on that place where i once turned too, opaque & motionless. sucked into the text where every flicker of a flame registers, a thing for words to play with. /// a heartbeat is easy to remember; these patterns, less so. yet i find that i have been stuck to these strange figures, sprawled out to form constellations of method and of disorder. but, mostly disorder, i would say.

that of an oeuvre, any ouverture, a product(ion)

i found out i'm no longer allowed there. did you know that in two of my last complit classes we read nothing but theory? theory not as fiction, i would say