Letter 7

But the buried walls and our mouths of fragments, no us but the snow staring at us. . . And you Mr. Ground-of_what, Mr. Text, Mr. Is-Was, can you calculate the ratio between wire and window, between tone and row, copula and carnival and can you reassemble light from the future-past in its parabolic nest or recite an entire winter’s words, its liberties and psuedo-elegies, the shell of a street-car in mid-turn or scattered fires in the great hall I would say not-I here I’d say The Book of Knots I’d say undertows and currents and waterspouts, streaks of phosphorus and rivervine winds Dear Z, I’d say it’s time, it’s nearly time, it’s almost, it’s just about, it’s long past time now time now for the vex- for the vox- for the voices of shadows, time for the prism letters, trinkets and shrouds, for a whirl in gauzy scarves around the wrecked piazza Messieurs-Dames, Meine Herren und Damen, our word-ballon, you will note, is slowly rising over the parched city, its catacombs, hospitals and experimental gardens, its toll-gates, ghettos and ring-roads, narcoleptics and therapists and stray cats Ladies and Gentleen, our menu for this flight, due to temporary shortages, will be an alpha-omega soup, Bactrian hump, and nun’s farts As we enter the seventh sphere, you will discover a thin layer of ice just beginning to form on your limbs Do not be alarmed, this is normal You will experience difficulty breathing, this is normal The breathing you experience is difficulty, this is normal Dear Z, Should I say space constructed of echoes, rifts, mirrors, a strange year for touring the interior Should I say double dance, Horn, axis and wheel Dear A, Scuttled ships are clogging the harbors and their cargoes lie rotting on the piers Prepare executions and transfusions Put on your latest gear