MOTION
by Douglas Messerli
folds ideas
before the rain, wet
as a state of attention
that happily lacks
rules. Beyond eyes
matter is volatized, arched
as the neck I attempted
but was resisted from.
Yes, there were compensations
behind this—these
words—an unorderly garden
that might produce carotene
to restore what is now distortion
only, like those chips
of data that never become
the image of what they
project. But,
and that is the issue, something’s left
behind imagination, a sense
of possible touch to tell
if the play
of the piano was aloud
permission. No moonlight
could be clear
to the backwards redneck—
Love never bends to where
is always must, and space
requires the distress.
July 8, 1998
from Douglas Messerli, Dark (2012)