CANTO 38 Tent, book, cushion
T
ent, book, cushion.Box-elders that couldn’t compete
after the great elms fell
stand angular, dry, under
arching oaks and hickories.
A spider crawls on canvas.
From underneath it seems
to walk off a shadow branch onto air.
No richer word
than "language."
Skull shines in web of mind
held by threads I brush aside.
The book says that in experiments with gases
a spider’s thread holds
the tubule a laser implodes.
No other fiber will do.
We can study, for a moment,
plasma too hot to contain.
Sitting on the cushion what can I rig
to catch—emptiness?
calm in the
absence of calm appears,
implodes concentric shells
that radiate music of my fears
I hang by a thread, shadow of thought,
long to walk into air.
Where to go
when I can go anywhere?