A
GOD CONCEALED
I
is
ego
in
another
tongue
a
swollen
sense
of
who
he
is
one
day
will
fall apart
&
leave him
hapless
reading
his
words
on
glass
&
air
or
looking
at
the sky
he
reads
your
face
the
eyes
like
shards
of
ice
aglow
a
god
concealed
his
mouth
askew
the
word
is
formidable [form-i-dabley]
in
another
tongue
the
words
dance
down
the path
inside
my ears
&
come to rest
recalling
how
you spoke
&
wrote
remembered
friends
&
comrades
ages
gone
THE
NAMES OF FRIENDS WE SHARE
the presence
of the dead
in every
corner
opens
now
into
a space
of
names
&
faces
that
escape
from
time
the
lonely dead
stare
out at us
they
learn
to
play
a
game
&
teach us
how
to read
the
times
before
&
after
gathered
in
our minds
a
faceless
swarm
of
the departed
for
as far
as
we can see
the
streets
of
Paris
as
they were
before
the
names
of
friends
we
share
between
us
on
the flight
to
berlin
other
faces
with pale
substance
& grey hair (Amirgen White Knee)
a
world
of
strangers
fathomless
across
from us
they
sit
&
stare out
at
the frozen
sky
barometers
of
change
the
living
&
the dead
together
take
my hand
in
yours
&
we will find
a
passage
to
a world
the
mind
remembers
&
the heart
can
share
the
resolution
that
the dead man
saves
for us
absent
a face
CODA
for
Diane
writing something
to leave behind
is yet another kind of dream
when I awake I know
there will be no one left
to leave behind
is yet another kind of dream
when I awake I know
there will be no one left
to read it.
ikkyu
immersed
in
light
the
final
blindness
seals
him
shut
his
body
crammed
into
a moving
car
the
future
&
the past
colliding
blown
apart
I sign
the final
email
who
the
others are
unknown
to
me
the
corners
of
my mind
are
dark
now
like
the universe
itself
unspoken
dropping
from
my hand
the
book
is
not
a
ball
of
light
the
pain
I
feel
in
leaving
cannot
be
your
pain
another kind
of dream
invades
me
loving
you
the
way
ahead
the
far side
of
a wall
arises
newly
built
a further
witness
beckons
in
the name
of
love
as
powerful
as
this
the
present
tense
is
all
we
have
I
count
the
days
with
you
our
fingers
join
&
come apart
again
we live
on borrowed
time
words
left
behind
the
book
inside
my dream
too
bright
for
those
to
whom
we
write
or
speak
&
know
when we awake
there will be
no one left
to read it
NOTE. The poems in “A Further
Witness” began as a tribute to Anselm Hollo while he was going through his
final days & ended, or seemed to then, with his death on January 29th, 2013.
I had known him going back to first
meetings in London in 1961 or 62 & our friendship lasted over the half
century since then. I suppose that the
mysteries of death & life hang over all of us & that the pain of
separation is what it is & can hardly be avoided, but with it too there’s a
sense of the preciousness of what we can give to each other in the little time
that we’re afforded. With all of that
I’m reminded too of what survives, both in his own works & in the lives of
those who were a part of his life & thought, & mine as well. To all of which bits & fragments enter
from the big book of outside & subterranean poetry that I was assembling at
that time, & the poem itself including the Coda for Diane continues up to the almost present.
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