The knuck­les of his fin­gers opened
so as that the mate­ri­al­i­ty of the moment be betrayed
or oth­er­wise impart grounds
or anoth­er give it a place with­in time
an aure­ole (as affec­ta­tion) to go along
the unit­ed landscape ―
and if the land­scape had joined him
and he was the dis­play of any landscape’s part
had the land­scape a pri­ori borne all structures
(he knew
he could not sus­tain the tini­est thought
being here/there in per­fect vacuum)

what after all does the land­scape intend to say
through him?
And there was nei­ther in real­i­ty, nor in the poem,
nor in inter­me­di­a­tion any solu­tion but a convex
or stretch­ing of the idea
(depend­ing on the will he set onto a preg­nant line

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