Tripping

. . . the words were all ours and it was enough that we held them in our hands to play with them; whatever you can play with is yours, and this was the beginning of knowing

—Gertrude Stein, American Language and Literature

A vase then            in sunlight
A refraction            of            a passing

of the manner of a predication

of a stoppage clock worn

of a shadow bending

voices suddenly along the          spaces

         A sunlit just there        and the myriad

of beasts gathered

just as words carried from a valley a stream a mountain

just there to be        cherished, fondled

our toys with      which      to build

a temple        or
perhaps a        poem,

two-storied angular a whisper through a prism

the spaces shaped about a        silence,

a cry among        the mountains
the heapings then of
an unused noun, a basket of        verbs

no commas allowed

nothing bought or sold

our hands wiped clean       of all the refuse

our hands a shape a shaping

a plane of       light

a vase

a        wording

a flattened as of

a book a book

closed.

Object

a stance of space, a time occupied
a shadow there behind
as though a tomb

an angular of stone &        carvings

a hint of paleo of distant hands

unworded
a making of a need
a mind

& the        object

a definition become        a real

as though to whip a meaning        from an

ocean’s broil

    a clown & the        object

a mask & a stone

      the silences hidden within        the OBJECT

a poem of unknowns

a Magritte refusing        all        margins

of a familiar

the ashes of it

drifting westward

a clouding a departure.