Thursday, September 20, 2012

The Fall

"as if the goal of the best poetry is to flirt with the nonsensical, to see if some suggestions of meaning – maybe just some mood or personal association – will be sparked by the centrifugal force created by a bunch of words wildly spinning"

We wheel up, settle in drifts
Rustle on over to the sticking place,
Pile up against it and ask

How is this any different
From hanging together
As well-expressed clusters,

How are we any less true
Than we were when we unscrolled
In regular, predictable patterns

From whichever branches
Of thought produced us?
Isn't this whispering skelter

Closer, much closer, to the actual
Arrangements of most things,
Predictable in a hilly way, if not

Especially informative
About what the things strewn
About used to have to say?

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