Debris Field (a midrash for RBD)


To sentence is to seizure.
(that much we agree on?)
A caesura cut in               space/a splice
                 or white ribbon tying
                 & untying anguish
                 to language. 

“What then is the size of the loss?” 

Is it measured by the darkness of the archives
where each word clings
to its orbital aura — a page, a scrap
                 a frayed map
singed at the edges, standing wave
Catapult, elegy, expenditure. 

“Every word teeming and bereft.”
Murmur nocturne, weep aubade.  




At night the <altered> precise
possibilities for <stopping> speaking
dissolve <persist> into the whiteness
joining a blink & a <disjointed> waver —         

“the beyond        
is in the         

weaving calliope migraine
to reclaim the remnant, translating
the dead out of their rubbleinto a language of messianic

Yeah, but the old franchise on dulcor
                 is kaput. 




“To thread thru rant/a wire”
                “to write just small, though hungry” 

To fall asleep
                in the low ghost’s
strange hope
                for words. 

A question
                mark makes
a world by

But living is what comes before
the amends for living.
                After is for making
                the broken into
letters that can
                the scattered.

A poem is a séance
between any
two persons.
A point anywhere along a line
running from ruin to gift.  




“All serifs are seraphim,” folded in the
margins, the unruly dream
of a text that would
mend an alphabet. 

But if A = null-a 

the impossible repair will
                  always be deferred.  

Aptly, the trace of
disaster scores
what it carries —
                a continual sonata for

                Splathed across
its full range, it lights
itself by
Jagged hosannahs where
                enigma becomes kerygma.




Is this a book?
                No, but each letter’s
                                a rift/in the hinge
                                of the text.

Distance elides us. Letters recombine.

God, according to the Sefer Yetzirah, only needed 22 to create the entire world —
how very thrifty of him! But we grow older in letters, wearied by them, worried
by them — how do we re-invent the letter?


the vacant room the letter
                                drops to the floor.
                The white saw of its ash
                cuts a groove
in the grain of the wood.

                And the operable lexicon is swarming with bad apples.

Yet disaster is also
song, its splendid
                smashing windows, prying locks
out of shatteredness. 

A spidered quire barbed with
                fonts of sunlight. A
gathering of signatures crowned
                with burst bind.

Everything’s outside the text
but it’s still books all the way down.