Thomas Lowe Taylor -- FALL

***************



Here's another day remiss or pasture encloaked but still withdrawn, another outer foil parlayed within your presence but held aside looming in within chants. I'd no other in my heart, but hearing is made another specific instance of what becalms you, or holds the distant waves within their own shimmering. It's a fathom and instance for clinging vines no distance reams the door, your own hesitation diminishing here and there, but history is still a room away, and the open forums you imagined calling out for recognition are made aside no more retreat the flame returns and hears your names and dates remove themselves from the outer framer.

I'd waved around. The further reaches of doubt are clearly explored but with a newer chance, with specific details made different, operating with success and fortressed out from the healer claims. The cars and others are not moving any more but are enfolded like your hourly substances calling out for their own recognition. Here's the day again, and your own name is still a flamer en retard, his own airs so far from removal that the reminiscence of vocabulary is still intense. The more fortunate of the remaining peasants still their own voices to secure the safety of an imminent future. What is held aside, hope for instance, is the residue of history encrypted within the being of the vision. No hourly fortunes are welcome here. There are far more empty cans than sacks to contain them, and in the sentence itself there are suggestions about where the true energies might lie and ignore refusal. The benign doubters stall around, marking out their own rhythms with word-choice inhabitants in their own collars, but the fuller gaps are made of light itself, satiated like a claim for espousal. I'd make these rotations claim their own space.

Here the faster scores recall; in less random alluvials, your own matter forges a leaner score than you might imagine. The definitions themselves are cloudy but intense, in tents or otherwise, sensations heaved from one room to another; but the furniture, couches and so forth, have their own placement within the imagination of the walls, the house itself a forger of latent claims, a denied musk-frame, but bleating light-hearted flips and balances from the tinderboard within its own shell. A lasting piece of delighted scrims; these are the leaner days. But what of the expectations that there might be something to all of this? It's a question mark you don't decide, but hear the echoes of your own beading limbs scoring the days aside and outer. I'd no other, but heal them quickly in the morning or after, a delight for all to see, but scheduled like a booter in the field. Bleating. It's a harried fogger that yields his due to no other in the sleep of distances.

In the emergencies of the light, yours are made to seem no other in the ship. Folds of heroines iron out your shirts and dyes. The loot is counted outer sail the fooler skips. It'd eke no other but your own, and sharing this heart becalms the beating of the darker rooms. What floated across at the early gap this morning was no imagination but the sucking empty hold you have on time itself, a slippery, grim reminder of your own specific distance. Love holds you in place, and the touch across time from the friend you make your own is still a welcome sign reigning in the distance. She's a farmer in disguise, rowing my corn with an elastic spin. The deeper reaches from where she comes is a mystery continuing its pleasures without disdain, a presence from nearer distances that you'd only thought. Of. The pore and spin of rhyme itself makes the outer in your skin a silly pudding forming on the night. Touches under cover are what remind you of light, and the guiding hand is slid apart and then you are to time and distance the same measure of meaning, how you enter and repeat; finding the horn beating up and out is a skiller in the smoothness of a moody light. We are these frames aside from what was there before, and contain within us these reminders of our own schedule fleeting in the mists. Love's would be it. But another word sufficed and made it close, made the dialog begin where before there was none. And friends established in the course of battle in the course of things are made close and personal, made like no other, but heading on into the gloom; you describe and forage, kneeling space and distance at their own flames. This is the revolving door.

I'd heard them, too, in the weasel of your dusks, in the afterburner of another punch in the head. This is the heart's business, after all, to forage and claim, to rotate and spin, as it were. But you'd skipped me now and then from what was a polish or a fur-dealer, touring touch, flooding picnic, the after hours spread and hold. The nightly scores are folded out; her eyes bore into you, entering space where no one has gone before. But the lemon. And I'd told them to wait; and told them no further marks are waited here; and told her to still my heart and hold me down, for I am this limb and stair.

The very spin itself, forming on the peaks of chance, call no distance too great to transmit, transmute, whatever. This is the curling iron, made informed but not too simple, claiming only what it is itself and making no claims for whatever might follow from the light or its own appositive in the realm of choice. You'd call another name the doubt of things in their own perspective. This is the door. But what flows through the heart cannot be denied or even described, it is too simple for words, only a flood or a tremolo, or a fathom on the floor of the spreading rift. And what resembles, for instance, comes from love and spreads outward and does not resemble so much as it hopes.

You've been there, of course, you just don't remember why or how it all happened. The sorrier loops err on the side of justice, and make these, uh, specific junctures what they are, too. In case of not noticing, the easier gasps are said over and over, healing where before there was only a mute sense of forgiveness running along your spine and then collapsed. The jungle itself has no metaphor for forgiveness, only the heart does. And in the silences of what follows, love has her face floating before you, a penetration and a firmer hand than you've felt before, skilling your lisps. Skulling these flips. The mooter claim, then, is at no distance or foal from discharge made certain in within the easier moats. What had no name in the time you thought was a motive held before you like a clam or a finer spin; moot to other discharges, the soul stays in its own parlor, waving feathery rains from their own excellence. The door, you say, where is the door? This is the woolen hope, this is the mark on the floor.

The Sandwich Age. Not to take it personally, you know, shrink-wrapped and all that, but the ideas themselves are not too applicable, coming as they do from the realm of disuse, er, discourse. I'd fool no other, but decide now and again to remember or to repeat, like a performance, and where love is concerned, there is nothing but originality in claims and fortunes, your own recall to doubt overturned, held within choice and impulse. Not no other in your head, but a seeing entity, what you are, and described by being two-headed or without pressure. A nomenclature reminded of itself, made into something plastic and more or less deposed. Something new might follow, but the other rooms are full and spent, the other hours are really parts of yourself, and what is hidden from view, you know the rest. Delete that forum, and push aside these others in the fold; they've their own decisions, and repeat themselves too often to unload or pass on. The rest is here--pattern and remittance, score and bloat. The rafters have not yet bent nor forded the scars within their fame, leaving love in the gaps from whence no marker comes. Try "across the sea" for instance. Try "here and no other" again. The sentences hold you to what is really there and then spoken at the door with their own substance, forcing the issue to another climax by insisting insisting that you are the one, here in the forests of chance, here in the doorway, looming outward like some stranger in the hallway, needing to be heard and insisting on the right to speak--that's the deal, you know, and turning away or into is not going to make it go away, like, the end of the whirled and the whine of the twine as it unrolls around you in the other hours from here to the outer ridge, up into the mountains where the bears dance in the sun.