to Alasdair Schlesinger
Pick a time and pluck
The printer thinks in ink
The eyes see mimicry
And pursue it
To their blankest song
These pulses are of the eyes
To blink endlessly
Blink
Among anything your
Body can know
By loving the world
Which you seek
This feeling which is first
Walk amply
In this time
Of letters cleaving thoughts
A body of your
Speaking
Simple whips of talk
Of this prairie green
A myth of this greenness
Initially this spectrum
The mouth is its
Own motor
The body becomes
The world in words
Going a million miles
Green preceding waves
Green conceiving
Attend seriously to
Attention
Errant in its emergence
Flick eyes sing
The mind that is
The body flashing
In a time it leaves
These letters playing their love
Graphically this integer
This year, this
Tear
In time
That is your birth
Against any drudgery
Overtures that overturn all
Attend to attention
Attend
A time of marks, of
Lines again
Your grace is not an
Artillery
Nor a crick of clocks
These pulses are of the ears
*composed February, 2005 for the occasion of Alasdair Schlesinger's birth.
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