Baraka Inscape
Baraka Inscape
Not so for my republic nothing left of rule
Nothing left of rule over the salvage self
by way of weapon to sing in sovereign song
no more composed in courage than most
No more than most myself save nothing is
befitting the field with as many futile
stockpiles of opinion so moved to moving
with derision or memory’s abortive
little heap after what I did to injury
Rooms still cold with the stroke of it
Still wreckage a resource like flesh
imputing fingers or lips I made stiller
unavailing even to eager asymmetries
of white where I am when I refute
in the kill zone altered of melodic lines
White in August heap’s disintegrated glass
volcanic at the skeleton edge of that
pernicious unfiltered little self emphatic
for Baraka’s Dusk for Duncan’s Throat
for an advent in mind for the kinfolk
meant by all in the derogative mob
in land-locked earth in antipodes
in eyes-wide noncombatant number
in clay and kiln, in day and bone
in name an ‘eruption of a counterform
in the closed field of white definition’
Originally published in Literary Hub.
