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Paul Hoover

Edge and Fold


even in their objects
            the sound of the white ones

flowing through our robes
            great seekers of nothing

among triangulations
            each place has its windows

sagebrush blue
            and not the last stupor

intensity and its likeness
            in love’s first lair


pageantry answers:
            it simply means distance

but others see appearance
            nodding at its fires

where eaves meet the street
            these are at the table

sound within music
            the structures of water

singing which each
            in pornographic proof


so little is profound
           even death with its style

unspeakable distance
           a grammar of folds

divide me by my oaths
           in a kingdom of scolds

where the rock simply is
          and history takes shape

beneath its own tree
          burdened with stones —

violence and her daughters
          love and her boy


rock and drill
            are a single street’s remains

where wind blows north
            and the rivers flow south

houses and their kindling
            overlook the sea

the beaches are empty
            and also the fish

excitement’s appetite
            is briefer than a pinch

and the cold wind steady


the absence of a thing
            constrained by its presence

is considered almost sacred
            here in the future

its new leaves swirling
            old notes gone

the last skin left
            is finally what you are

digression’s too far from fate
            and what am I saying

Alles im Wunderland
            or Petra Van Kant’s

was the experience
            worth the candle?


a melancholy lyric
            intimate yet distant

its brokenness is real
            even if non-existent

so beauty is halfness
            its truest note cracked

Miles Davis unfulfilled
            his notes heartbreakingly

always on the edge
            of breaking down completely

all true things are song
            a weave unweaving


life tries to keep you
            how far have we come

products of a thinking
            expressions of snow

we taste the river
             often in our drowning

sacred to the world
             of which we are (a)part

Zeno’s arrow
             reaches its horizon

stopping as it goes
             the snow that never falls

melts on your face —
             obscurities of the page

and certainties
             at the windows


edge and fold
            the raiment of the field

the harrow breaks it down
            harrow of sight

with its articulations
            nothing is in passion

when all is in belief
            the world keeps turning

to face the burning sun


the transparent seed
             enters its soil

resident of the world
             for a moment almost nothing

centrifugal but inward
             drawing toward its source

companions and strangers
             the music we are of


bright essential speech
            of all things small

and of the last song
            I saved first the twilight

and then a fist of fire
            dwellers of the town

are kneeling on concrete
            in the pleasure of our time

leisure coming after
            I could not defend us

from what we could not be
            crepescule for tea leaves

the filthy generations
            weakened by a war

April 2005  |  Jacket 27  Contents  |  Homepage  |  Catalog  |  Search  |
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