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t h e..c o n j u r e..b o x
a door is opened in the wall behind
I offer my sickness to the wind
& time, the conjure box
I
the luminous, their cubist faces
angles changing constantly
non angli sunt sed angeli
the bottle on the table
sings the old guitarist into structure
from the print of faded paper
air of line a song of plane
where is no sky where is no dye
the worlds draw near & drawn apart again
II
the pageless volume open
to the open eye:
silence drawn out to a cry
III
where living water
wears away the stone
where magic first vibrated dusk
& dawn climbed out
where what we say is proved
by voice alone:
the magic of the dance the room
the plugpoints living each & singing
what is this they shout
& point at everything
& deafen me like children
till I answer - listen -
what is this
.....a book
what is a book
.....an object of our time
what is an object
.....no
what is an object
.....oh a kind of hole in space
.....or no
.....a kind of fold in space
.....as words are folds in silence
.....living, waked, aware
warmer
says the standard lamp
but no cigar
IV
& the patterns in the sand have filled with sand
V
cross of doubt
the cruciform erection
fear we name
& which becomes a body
but is fear the same
magician, thru the light
of books both read & unread
here between the leaves of memory & hope
the lines of Fludd & Paracelsus
flowing out & back
how everything is spiral out
recircling to the centre
VI
blessed art thou among women
o virgin fallen as the snow
thru autumns thru the winter
thru the spring's profusion
ah but smoke is blowing from the windows
of the houses all on fire
a human figure
silhouetted in the upper window
framed in fire
one arm upraised thru flames
& all the forms predestined here to suffer
at the sounding of a city's bell
& nothing known but names
VII
circle, permutation of itself
a funfair of colliding cars
a question asked & answered
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