"All was still – connected through disconnection:
shapes of the alphabet / invisibility / three ladders;
found objects: a dime / a button / a flower / a fork in the road /
a paper key / a crayon / a candle / the garden of tomatoes.
We want the definition, when the feeling starts to go.
Or to grow. Receiving the clues, I go out to buy wool.
Conversations in dreams leave us, feeling knowing.
If we un-remember, a blink or an encountered sign
contain the faded message from tomorrow,
like a poem or letter yet to be written because we are
the poem, still between ink, pen and movement,
still in the pen. I calculate the linguistic stitches.
In code, a fallen fridge-magnet word tells me to hesitate.
Car registration plate consonants tell me a friend is there.
Themed days present me with twins and synchronicities.
Gentle hints tell me I must seek symbols and make myth.
Threadsuns hold the language; your name I begin to knit
in numbers – thousands of eyes in webbed cloth. Of late,
when I glance at my watch, I keep seeing the time in doubles:
10.10, 13.13, even 22.22 says hello, teaching me that all time
is two-fold, at least, or bound up in a looped aporia,
like presence and absence together: a sense of prabsence.
the mirror, yields to nothing and becomes it,
so tells me a
postcard of upside-down paintstripes and brushes.
I will knit your absence into presence with numbers, needles and rows.
With numbers, needles and rows, I will knit your absence into presence.
With numbers and needles, with needles and numbers,
with needles and rows, with rows and needles,
with rows and numbers, with numbers and rows,
with numbers and needles, with needles and rows.
With numbers and needles, with needles and rows,
with needles and rows, with rows and numbers,
with rows and numbers, with numbers and needles,
with numbers and needles, with needles and rows.
With numbers, with numbers, with needles and numbers,
with rows, with rows, with numbers and rows,
with needles, with needles, with rows and needles,
with numbers and needles, with needles and rows
I will knit your absence into presence,"
so the potential letter thought,
whilst noticing that milk has no corners.
stop stop don't
stop stop it is never coming
back stop it never goes away
stop evaporating shells stop I woke up
sleeping twice stop never stop stop go stop
lost stop found stop I wait with a hand colour
line stop energy consciousness body hit stop now
rods and cones lexical umbra stop different reds of
sundown stop silence gyre fingerprints stop doppelganger
space stop thought stop hurt stop stop this fractal architecture
stop stop me stop you stop no stop between stop stop us
smoke signal stop the river remembers stop counting
matches stop rotate mossy canvas waterfall fish vase
stop sleeping diagonally stop your dreams will
be slanted stop bursting into waters stop the
hyphen I am not full stop I am not stopping
stop stop me writing stop stop never
stop stop stop stopping stop
stop stop stop
les plius et les replis"
Where shade and silence are as deep as each other,
space assumes a bright radiance when it absorbs itself
outside in, dew and lawn knitting water-tapestries.
Transparent-ink copperplated curls of language
contain their own universe and verse in each stroke,
and the end in the first word, reaching into the without
from travelator edges of this edgeless jigsaw.
The whole moment stays weightfully and weightlessly
suspended neither and both doubled in the double
and halved in the half of a malleable mirror –
an eloquent void, dense, fleeting, strange
where infinite regressions face each other
in rainrays and sundrops, transfixing towards absurdity.
One listens to the momentum of the moment;
the other is a reflection. This is mossthick alchemy,
sweet as white mulberry that cannot be eaten
without water, where invisibility balances weight
and the only thread holding us is the texture
of our reflections, like papyri, writing rubbed off,
still bearing an impression: bronze-rubbed coins
of syllable, sound and glance, between secrecy and silence.
We say more than we speak, mean more than we utter,
are stilled in our being by having become unable to say
what must remain unspoken. This is a blind language:
ink becomes words become signs become feeling becomes Braille,
as we fish for slips of the tongue, faded dot-to-dot patterns,
dualities. The vanishing point is where we all long to be:
there’s no distinction between the manifest and its origin.
Between book and reading room, word and speech,
between paper and stone, sherry and port, dock leaf and nettle,
between flour and bread, knife and cut, between card and fold,
is a fold manicure scissors cannot cut nor piano notes reach.
Each page unfolds into the next: fold, fold, and give the fold
the mysteries inscribed in the skin, strata, and parchment
embedding them, fold, fold gently, fold with love,
fold by language, fold, fold and give the fold to the folded,
fold, fold backwards, fold and maintain the fold
whilst in the process of folding, but do not be fooled!
The inconceivable middle page has no reverse. (Turn.)
And your image is in my mirror’s memory still.
a pact, a pledge.
Neither will say what
we promise, if we know,
but we will promise. A promise
can only promise, so if we promise,
maybe we will arrive, after this departure,
in the straying path, at the promised destination;
a path of a promise, but wait, the path left before us,
is going, has already gone, detouring, returning, forked,
we are on it; the soap path is not that, not that. A convex knot,
we arrive only at our not-ness, translate colour, trace unreadable
names, semaphore the deaf impossibility of the promise – since distorted
by resemblance, the promise promises us, not we the promise. Give me water.
Forgetting something does not imply that that something forgot you, just as
closing a door does not eliminate the possibility that something interesting
goes on in the open room on the other side. For, we were in this false room,
close, thread-thought scattered, looking: something happened. Open footsteps,
a threaded time maybe, returning. Nothing mine. Semi-memories and light lucid
dreams brought me no closer. Remember, you stayed, yes, led a strange thread
out, white shadows, love, caves in sack, no dice, carrying them, carrying on
past the closed door into strange out-times, picking up hints, shaping my
name, another mirror room of an unfinished meaning, on past the sentence and
door closing, into another moment like a room – here, is now happening. It is
made only always believe it. Know the cup of words. See space face
everywhere, future petals before us. Thread me. The message is in a number. Were
something to happen to "we" then, like thread fed through caves?
Closing. Into another room just as something interesting goes, picking up my
scattered thought in a sack, and carrying past the door. Then, forgetting to
close it, returning, carrying on into another room of past possibility. The
closed door does not imply something strange: always a lucid now. See, no
light is everywhere. A looking thread maybe does not eliminate caves. That
thread led through a number of white petals, that mirror thread, fed on false
footsteps. The strange times made them something threaded out like
love-caves. Semi-words brought me no closer. The message is here, in dreams
and cup-space, closing shadows before us. In the room threadshaping on the
other side, know time forgot you: face the open moment, remember only
nothing. Believe dice future-memories. We mine meaning for hints. "We
were in this room", is it happening? Yes. You happened. Open me out.
Were a something to happen, that something stayed an unfinished sentence,
like closing a door on a name.
Something "unfinished" happened: scattered thread, we were a possibility
happening. Time does not eliminate space in this mirror, shaping the past and
carrying my love into the caves. Looking closed the door onto false thought.
In that dice-cup, a name threaded footsteps that fed you to them, into a
strange lucid forgetting led me, just an interesting sentence-thread, closing
something: a number. Happen on a closing room-door, open the door – another
room does not imply meaning, only another thread like a returning moment
carrying on, closer now. Like a strange sack of something as nothing, caves.
Something light, past and future goes in it, you see. The petals of dreams
brought me here. Always out-believe before memories. Know the shadows face
us everywhere. Mine for something: time's thread, close it. Remember we stayed,
forgot. White is in words. No yes no. Maybe, then, through picking up hints
(the semi-message), an out-room is made on the other side. Were that room
Malgorzata Kitowski 2004