Thomas Lowe Taylor -- THE GESTURE ITSELF

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The fanfare of the day is nutrient, is light, we are photo tropic cells, undulating intelligences thriving in the harmonious soup penetrating throughout this music of odors and saps in the continuous feeding of each other, leaning back and forth the unconscious dancers forming left and right encircling centers unrevolved wheels of the prayer and substance removing the physical distances upreaching fortresses of the body's solitudes in words called forth the trance and mask and drum over reaching the names themselves, portent, spire, regime, plenitude, excess and flume, and in the time of time itself we name the light our own space, recompense and favor, the platters on the wooden sphere, technic and decoration, numerical, possessed of life itself revolving forward the electric body calling poet dance and mime the savor of the moment still unyielding silence names us forward, forward houses heal the heart's own swarm to light, outreach and plasm, the names of the song and honor, this continuing and arriving in the day to day. As what is shown, the beauty of the gesture itself makes love's name your own passage into subject, it is the arm and hand and foot inclined to shoreward pushing erect this calm reflection bears us outer metaphors no less inert than life itself the spell unwinding colors sail the room the eye's foam, your honors winding signs below the sky, plant men, seed child the heart's reproductions meaning meeting all along, the waiting moons becalmed, astir, blowing forms and shattering the monumental morning, honorific, your hand's fingers lighter touching hours in retreat the cleverer stations are these additive accumulations of value and purpose, the hymn of the common, solitary motives, reviews, positions, excuses, flattery and purpose, doubling mind and song into presence, the poem of the hours calls the skysung asphalt looming mountains, the age of signs returns at once, sudden, in the beauty of the gesture itself, said from one to one. It is the arm of the many in the one and he who holds her back and forth, the markers flowing blood between them given child to child the conferees their plasms resolve the inner claims are moved against the all, the numbers, the numbers of us interchanged and individuated, arised and flattered, signing across the spaces of the eye's instances, memories of earlier lines remind the total of its functioning intelligences, the body's favors spasmed out from one on one into the higher reaches of the language spoke, the gesture itself in unredeemed brilliance and clarity, the common hand against the wall of the house, in the depths of the soil, in the eye's focus of detail do the fingers twist and speak, at plaster plastic platters, the voices of time remove and shower the more tranquil hours, feeding and creating the simplicity of her hand before the mirror, affectionate and precise, graceful and monumental, this crowd of solitudes arriving in the morning moving back and forth and down to down and back. You are there again, you are here; the space inevitable and profound, the secrets of the gesture accumulate between silences, it is no encyclopedic catalogue of mechanical contrivances which marks us out as humane, or specific, or new, we are the name of the age, we are this one of many, undeniable and profound, diminished, indicated, an allowance of the planet, the few and yet all of it marked out and proper; we are this gesture, this song, this moment, accused and resumed in the nomenclature of the hours in the beauty of the slighter gestures the hand twirling out over the top and in, into the mood of the sound itself, into the pop and sign of the music itself, we are the gesture itself, the history of the insignificant monuments, the smaller reaching flames fanned and flawed again, we are this and this again, feeding, stroking, sensory and astounded, filled, furthered, futured, arrived, made and molded, the contemplation of the hours, mortal, described, accumulating, resumed. Simpler spoke than smoked, he ploughs on. There are the trees in lines, again the bluer skies settle into morning bushing out and flaming, the pettier hours recede, outside, they are they, paisley, monochrome, beyond variety, located inside the gestures made, the assistances of the forms themselves locate the mood of the moment here and thus: you spoke out now and then.