LXVI
We are in the perpetually damaged language And will
remain there, so as not to become monsters That's where
the given is broken, and new form becomes possible
I hear new birds The song thrush sings
at the break of day Weak, weak light,
the song perfectly clear Now it's day, other birds
From the neighbor's house up in the woods we hear hammer blows
A car passes on the road On television we see
the political elite, their awkward dance There are
also other elites, more invisible I do not want to
belong to any of them Because they are defined
Also self-defined; in their regnant power
Which is the opposite of the form of the elective, in love
There is almost nothing without form Form chooses us
In the evening I gaze into the abyss of genetic technology
How the groundwork for the human is literally pulled out from under us
There, too, art is deep as an abyss For we have no
choice The logic of this research can no longer be halted Only
deflected or diverted like an unusable
flue in a chimney We will find ourselves amidst monstrous births
Those who believe they can select life away
don’t know what they’re talking about The form of the abyss is so much
deeper The pain goes so much deeper Hoi polloi kakoi, defined
away as shit, in their immense numbers So many, that
not even the mapping of the human genome
will go very far In this immense combinatorics In this
comparatively simple form’s living, growing response to the world
in its experienced, its lived totality Which is not totality
For that cannot exist Whosoever does violence to the unfinished
does violence to infinity One cannot do this without dying
This is what death is, outer or inner I look at
the minute latticework in the wings of the blue damselfly That which
breaks the light The shimmering richness We find ourselves amidst radiant change
We are not shit We are the many We bear luminous wounds
We bear the possibility of love; also its real sweetness Its sound
LXIX
At night once more the moon’s quiet, mystical light
The moon is in the trees in the forest, no wind at all No one sees it
but me, from inside the sleeping house
Now a light breeze moves stiff leaves in the heat
What does human light have to do with me? Have I
turned away, esoteric; though this was never my choice
I don’t know I cannot abjure inner sovereignty
Which is also external I taste blood
in my mouth, on my lips Who am I sacrificing?
For whom shall I become an offering? Perhaps no one Not even for that
would I be of any use But I shall touch you with life. . .
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