floated on principles, like gondolas,
cooling with their wash the sun-hot stones
in splashed sound.
To get together
with humans to ride it out, stirred up
water, the para-
systems. Subtle solutions.
of reflection. The city quelled;
of the media dead
at angles—oil slick
over waver of iridescent coral
The bump of water.
METALOGIC OF ONE OF THE LATE TALES OF KAFKA
We take the mole for metaphor, blind
unseeing and we know what that means:
for we’re blind and unseeing, that is.
And what does ‘blind’ mean? Simple: —
blind as a mole. Blind
we shoulder through depths of our houses,
noise coming up from outside from the scratching
we’ve never peered into. Let’s hear them out
in those other mole or moles’ burrow houses,
to which our snout connected up, earthed off,
of stupidity: not the economy
so much, the numbing it out;
but an estimate of the ungiving in matter, solid.
A lack of gaiety, wit,
in the door you blunder against,
when you forget,
or treat it as function
for shutting-out cold, for opening-in air.
Answering to gravity
of self—heavy body’s sense
of Id-self among objects,
who are not itself, but essence, un-
sonorous off the thickness of it, the
clumsiness of it afoot, blunder-
adroit against incomprehensible
worlds, tactful to its heavy tact,
in an individual among the undivideds.
Image credit: Colmandavid