The Drift

and then there is this sound
that starts with a scarcely audible
rustling inside gold the whisper
echoing within the diamond
grows to take in snatches
from high stars from elsewhere
the disintegrating actions
of clocks so that eventually
you attend to the infinities
of numbers shattering
the shriek that is the change
of several millions

the red fish leaping from the mouth
up the cold fresh stream
to the empty source
spilling down
through stars and through
the watching courses of stone
until the fixed mesh abstracts
unerringly each hour
with all its clamouring brood
jerking routinely to the tune

noise of concerns sequestered
ultimately will get out
states sundered bleed
surely each to each
by breaking bounds ghosts
traffic through the empty squares
stay mum and the child will answer
even what it must not know
which you realize cannot
but end in an exposure

bones may well
bring meat to market
on the road voice lodges
of the throat
there to recount
the exaltation of the source
disclose the system
shock of close attention
and to the distracted hearing
it sounds a history
of all the ordinary
aches we suffer

when the thieving
that was well advanced faltered
the imperial presence surveyed
the ordered territories
and declared in measured words
nothing there is savage any more
intelligence and griefs are tamed
rage is reduced in parks
only perhaps along the furthest bounds
may be some dirt a little ghost
and these are even as we speak contained
in three quart jugs

sea will fit full of fish of many orders
these will be my varied meat
then surface craft with manifests
for relish weed for bread
abyssal waters for cold broth
though scarcely yet begun
finished already
and to follow
garrisons brief zones
of time and influence
the tempting metals of the air
do not they fly and last of all
bright asterisms will fit in

in three quarters now you lie
lacking a fourth
of your voice that flew at once away
not a tremor breeds within the marble orchard
and is it that this simply is either finished or not
or not yet begun
perhaps truly not begun
twig of bone empty still
until there come the words
now quite forgotten whats the air
the sun leans down
and lifts the sea

jugs standing sealed and safe exhale
intoxicating the rare earths
dark matter in the air
there is nothing either
fishing the empty grounds
the heavy elements
turn over in their sleep
uncertain ever
when the filling
when the thieving

millions are too vast
cruelly they hunt the fields
and bring down awkwardly
the quickening in its course
behind their staggering weakness
leaves devastation and impersonal rage
but even these may be attended to
outside the foundries where they sleep howling
as sometimes fierce and weary
one will sprawl and rest
its harsh throat on your arm
and then there is this sound

the tune of several mysteries
what brought this on
the sand whispering
in your veins
what wind of knives could
buzz the nodding headbone blind
what soft amends
the clock disintegrates
the sun does not rise
the dream is mistaken
pulse of sand is
roaring obliterates the red

exposure to the extreme
stillness of fire
the flickering rock
disturbs all night
across an empty sky
the high frosts creak
and strike the clumsy sun
leaves on the grass
the shadow of the vaulting white
beyond the bounds
no silence no noise

we suffer an old vertigo
that strikes with the first dream
of irresistible winds
across these settlements
thats how the unhinged
thrones and dominations fell
attending as joints lost their grip
throughout the deadlocked centuries
as new wood broke
disordered from old stock
voices were joining
in a round of bones