CANZONE

Diffusion into lamplight—the suspect will

blunts its tongues on the night’s green propulsion,

a tangent same in its ardencies will

argue the sameness of dark and its will

to conception, to flame’s extinguishing

of will, the phantom branchings,

willing endings. The night

clothes itself in glass. So

close to a vertical motion, this

will to succession, a mind of glass.

Do the glassy minutes spill

their seconds, like curves of a spiral

or glassy spool,

revolution of will

that skirls in a radius

precessing the spool’s

compulsion to uncoil?

The black glass night created to spoil.

The shale of its outside, its skin

of reception. It caresses

the concept, a prettiness,

compact. The spills

close, and their seep

leaves a trail, a stain close

to putrefaction, a rotted clothes.

Spinal in a vertebral

consequence, disclosed

as a rejection of closure

makes of will a mirror,

far or close

to the open its infant clothes

shivers into pulsions.

It is spring’s compulsion

to close sweet snows

in nights of winter concept,

blooming warm dawns of reception,

a brown glass the blood receives

like petals unclose

in a sun’s mind’s conceiving.

This is the name a dirt is receiving,

a fresh spill awakening.

Dead on reception, we gleam,

a dark perceiving.

Isn’t will a glass

that saturates its willing?

Or perceives its own perception?

A compulsion to believe

the body’s compulsion

lives beyond propulsion,

past mereness of receiving

attraction, revulsion,

like a dumb bug, convulsing

a world closed in glass.

The lamp pulses its coil

of distance and suspension.

The heart-spool won’t stop.

Is a spiral, embodied motion.

The pulse urges, red completion,

propitiation of will.

It sounds, a willful

accretion, that will

not be silenced by repletion.

Crimes of reception

can never kill or close

the glass pierce of their spiral.