The Book of Useless Knowledge
The alphabet is anything we’d make of it,
once it’s been emptied of its big ideas.
Our dawn-star crumples like a seed of trash
corrupting in this incandescent river
overhead—look, its blaze at day’s edge is
emphatic as our bliss. A brief
narcotic, like the architecture here,
which has taken on Brutalist tendencies.
One good turn, and soon we’re going in circles,
trying to follow the waters underground.
Some things might be impossible to mean.
All words are sound. . . Even so, the poets
are trying to explain it to themselves again;
again they ponder something in each structure
that resists imprimatur, or anyone’s strategy
to implicate a covert violation, which demands
no high essential sure intent
but only meltfloods,
moon-vibes: a rash kenosis of all agenda, each
grain of sense, alleviated—no, elevated into grace.
Words fall away
as pretexts to the radiance
from which, arising, they dissolve:
a whisper-course of watermarks . . .
To offer a lyric this late when all our head
have been lofted with the wine would be foolish,
like sounding the air, the airwaves
for a scientia of the clouds.
Yet, still we speak about the weather,
insinuating something else—as vague
as heaven. Below, each field patchworked
and nubbled, with its waning yield, so let’s turn back
and smell the pulp around the lumberyard,
forget about the putsch, the fact-checkers
working overtime, the whole grand tour, even
if the output we’ve wrought seems put-upon—
just a simple catch of song which no one
could possibly experience the reference for,
such as: “forever and ever. . .”