Women’s work is never done
Incest avoidance and baby-talk
Debits debated, the cat in the snow
Mother tongue loaded, migration of forms
Nevertheless, things slip away
The empty quarter is rarely attained.
It’s always jam yesterday, jam tomorrow
What about today?
We swim each moment in tragic distraction
Anguish disguises the beautiful circuits
The nature of thinking is multi-track.
The familiar forest
as structuring boundary,
a last Grimm fable to
thwart pique ruffle deflate abash
Yet in some no-man’s-land
between the tabloid and the treatise
a noise outside the code can cause mutation,
squadrons of messenger birds
descending on the cranium unheralded
Some mastery of attention is possible
such stretches of purity as cannot be
paraphrased, safaris extended into yourself
The hard thing to notice is what’s not there