To unseam the real skies open
With a blade of grass
Is the doubtful fate of the men
Who have seen no light
At the end of the looking-glass
Where nothing is sun, or night.
Everything is dawn. Everything is day.
Nothing drawn to the angle of say.
And but the height of treetops green
Shades the evening of grey pencils –
Why is that that this thing unseen
Must be sought not for the models
They unveil but for the hiatus
Muffled deep within us.
Logic lost in the hapax legomenon.
Found again in the “exeunt”, in the “anon.”
When, and if, found again in the well
Like a leaf lost in the swell
Spiralling waterwards in the nick of time,
One needs to adapt one’s speech
To the skerries of crumbled crimes
Harrowing the ceiling of the seas.
Language perdita behind the horizon afar.
Dropped by a few birds a few times from skies ajar.
Uncut though it remains, but it we ignore,
We look stupid with our razor-sharp looks,
Trying to uncloud the old veritas of yore –
Our sad eyes no light can see
Because the ink is so black in those books
Only emerged darkness may be.
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