Suit up!
There is no Life or Death
Only activity
And in the absolute
Is no declivity
There is no Love or Lust
Only propensity
Who would possess
Is a nonentity
There is no First or Last
Only equality
And who would rule
Joins the majority
There is no Space or Time
Only intensity
And tame things
Have no immensity
Photo After Pogrom
Arrangement by rage
Of human rubble
The false-eternal statues of the slain
Until they purify
Tossed on a pile of dead,
One woman,
Her body hacked to utter beauty
Oddly by murder
Attains the absolute smile
Of dispossession:
The marble pause before the extinct haven
Death's drear
Erasure of fear,
The unassumed
Composure
The purposeless peace
Sealing the faces
Of corpses -
Corpses are virgin.
Magasins du Louvre
All the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass
Long lines of boxes
Of dolls
Propped against banisters
Walls and pillars
Huddled on shelves
And composite babies with arms extended
Hang from the ceiling
Beckoning
Smiling
In a profound silence
Which the shop walker left trailing behind him
When he ambled to the further end of the gallery
To annoy the shop-girl
All the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass
They alone have the effrontery to
Stare through the human soul
Seeing nothing
Between parted fringes
One cocotte wears a bowler hat and a sham camellia
And one an iridescent boa
For there are two of them
Passing
And the solicitous mouth of one is straight
The other curved to a static smile
They see the dolls
And for a moment their eyes relax
To a flicker of elements unconditionally primeval
And now averted
Seek each other's surreptitiously
To know if the other has seen
While mine are inextricably entangled with
the pattern of the
Carpet
As eyes are apt to be
In their shame
Having surprised a gesture that is ultimately intimate
All the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass.
Only activity
And in the absolute
Is no declivity
There is no Love or Lust
Only propensity
Who would possess
Is a nonentity
There is no First or Last
Only equality
And who would rule
Joins the majority
There is no Space or Time
Only intensity
And tame things
Have no immensity
Photo After Pogrom
Arrangement by rage
Of human rubble
The false-eternal statues of the slain
Until they purify
Tossed on a pile of dead,
One woman,
Her body hacked to utter beauty
Oddly by murder
Attains the absolute smile
Of dispossession:
The marble pause before the extinct haven
Death's drear
Erasure of fear,
The unassumed
Composure
The purposeless peace
Sealing the faces
Of corpses -
Corpses are virgin.
Magasins du Louvre
All the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass
Long lines of boxes
Of dolls
Propped against banisters
Walls and pillars
Huddled on shelves
And composite babies with arms extended
Hang from the ceiling
Beckoning
Smiling
In a profound silence
Which the shop walker left trailing behind him
When he ambled to the further end of the gallery
To annoy the shop-girl
All the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass
They alone have the effrontery to
Stare through the human soul
Seeing nothing
Between parted fringes
One cocotte wears a bowler hat and a sham camellia
And one an iridescent boa
For there are two of them
Passing
And the solicitous mouth of one is straight
The other curved to a static smile
They see the dolls
And for a moment their eyes relax
To a flicker of elements unconditionally primeval
And now averted
Seek each other's surreptitiously
To know if the other has seen
While mine are inextricably entangled with
the pattern of the
Carpet
As eyes are apt to be
In their shame
Having surprised a gesture that is ultimately intimate
All the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass.