from Apparition Poems: 1571
Adam Fieled

     

To cut right to the bone—
there is no bone in this,
it's mirrors, echoes, bits,
more than play, less than

life, but anything limiting
this needs to be chucked
like fruit rinds into a bin,
any arbitrary signifier that

knows itself to be arbitrary
can work as mirrors, echoes,
bits, if you have faith that
what's ineffable counts, is.

 

//   Advance   //