Friday, November 12, 2010

THE MOON IS THE NUMBER 18, by Charles Olson

is a monstrance,
the blue dogs bay,
and the son sits,

is a grinning god, is
the mouth of, is
the dripping moon

while in the tower the cat
and all motion
is a crab

and there is nothing he can do but what they do, watch
the face of waters, and fire

The blue dogs paw,
lick the droppings, dew
or blood, whatever
results are. And night,
the crab, rays round
attentive as the cat to catch
human sound

The blue dogs rue,
as he does, as he would howl, confronting
the wind which rocks what was her, while prayers
striate the snow, words blow
as questions cross fast, fast
as flames, as flames form, melt
along any darkness

Birth is an instance as is host, namely, death

The moon has no air

In the red tower
in that tower where she also sat
in that particular tower where watching & moving
there where what triumph there is, is: there
is all substance, all creature
all there is against the dirty moon, against
number, image, sortilege---

alone with cat & crab,
and sound is, is, his

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