ANDREW JORON

ECLIPSE CALLING


0.

Poured orbit, 0
An all-rounding river of last regard

Given nothing for
Given

Cannot rest, but runs in countercurrents
     against

     that pax, that poverty of state—

As contorted as letters
The bodies lie still below the readable surface.


1.

To those who—come to comb rayed musics
Out of matter—read

Red eddies, desire as Swan, as swoon of dawn—
Commune
     of all that cannot be thought:

Earth & blood are even, because Divisible.
     Heaven
Is odd, because indivisible. So free from prayer.

—a free word says Death or, better, death
To the President.

Imagine the spoken, O’s
Spokes convergent on no center. No place
Is polis
     but there are violins preceding violence.
     A word is birthplace of the plural body.

As wide-eyed as wild-isled:
     I & I
     achieving signature upon inverted landscape-sky.

Accepted into vastly revolving ocean
As shock of nudity—

     that posture foaming to far pasture, to pure field.

Here, first person is maintained: an archaic device, somehow
     stopped inside its own velocity, its substance
     dissimilar to itself—

Its living moment: relic of a movement unarriving.


2.

Of if born of of, there is no information—
     the universal is unsaved.

Age to come to calm
     if & only if
Calm’s measure makes disquiet.

For a phrase = a fragile thread
Composed of something dead, plus pulse.

     O my Other, mother-throated One—
Name, between
     abandoned body—
     the twin of of.

Horn fight, drum fight, drafting tatters in the head.

The groan as ground-tone is also known.
     Unsaved is this
     unstruck instrument. A theater, someday with tall voices

     —chorus overboiling like cumuli—will be lifted from the sea.

From frees to free, the verbs do not agree.

Shadow
     belongs to the half that is always hungry.

Totality’s ring
     a window-effect
Of the self-referential.

 

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