Reading in Kilgore’s Compass

 

Re: The Coming Out of, As Through The Night

The voice of the poet follows from infernal centers–unviolent as all bodies are unviolent within toward and themselves in themselves; one–seeing as that light that is also the life it installs, when the figures touch, I remember, in the run and rub that replays, these bodies are but ion-rich breaths of an aging brain. Real enough to me–here’s another way to break the stupid thing open: my heart mends. (I had so wanted to say that it breaks, but my fingers flat refused).

 

In the traditional chronology one might say the work moves deliberate & slow, but I feel I know nothing of slow. All is movement. There are these alignments that begin a center somewhere beside a phrase, that by the lower quarter are carving a line down the page. When did this paper become a stone? These words a waterfall? A moment ago we were babbling. Inquisition of the endings of things comes as steady as if studying a flower, but the question desires its ideal- memory… a nothing-more-than-this.

Here:

Would the circular defeat

                                    as progress

                                         each initial stepping

                                     is it defeat

                                    Is it, each initial step, the growing

                                                in the wasteland


It were the shape my heart desired to find the words & read them on a train. The circular progress stepping defeat – progress as of muscular momentum, in the infinite direction of further away from. This is not loss, it is geology.

Sincerely,

Alan Mudd

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