On an Instrument without Name
nature being number, and
number, in its ebullient disorder, the very spores of
sounds, had sought, therein, the
lost radicals of some
late
ideation. holds but
hardly, you write. holds, but only by the slenderest
caulicles of a once-
in-
dissociable determinant; by its
least
released seedlings. drift, then, through
those teased frequencies. there, where even flight's
in
flight, feed upon the fugue's each
decimated
measure. for blown, the
particles catch, flare. all's there; all's
well, you write. all's at last,
restored, if only the
heart
enter the
fingertips, and the fingertips,
faultlessly, strike upon their each obliterated chord.
--Gustaf Sobin
fr. Columbia Poetry Review #13
http://www.colum.edu/undergraduate/english/poetry/pub/cpr/arch/13/
sobin.htm
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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website: http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard
blog: http://entropyandme.blogspot.com/
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