Literature

The Body in the Word

It is not simple. It is opposite. Like revelation or dream, it does not lurk behind its signs. Full of fields, even when alone. Even if you rest all afternoon in a kingdom of caresses it engenders choreographies. And the voice goes deep. Archipelagos, you write, where begin, armadillos, gloves, a cart with apples, song and pollen, rock wing, diagonals streak off, labyrinthine nests, a different game.

It is essentially. It could not be other. In the beginning absolutely. Not how the world is, it could not say, but that it exists, the word. Supreme visibility in deepest darkness. As children we kept our secret and grew old. With nudity exhausted. As for birds, you write, beside me, abyssal glossolalia, soup, brass handles, too early in the day, formation of geese, grammar, not confession, landscape of possibles.

Nothing could be without it. It was made by us. But the nervous system speaks no known language. Roots burst out of the ground and we stumble, jolting the marriage of skeleton and flesh. Mumblers all, you write, spit and babble, one way sun, inch into the open, mirrors on string, scent bottles, black walls, black kitchen table, in Bamberg, touch everything.

It says nothing. It shows itself. St. Augustine was interested. Words, that is to say, no foundation. Variables crowd the lines of perception, brushing off flies, the time stolen. The limits of the body expand with- out necessarily attaining orgasm. Pieces that do not fit the puzzle, you quote, sizes, shapes, launch into space, if a round mat, sigh with pleasure, le nu provençal, life takes a long look, a birth and its clarity.

Rosmarie Waldrop

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