Thomas Lowe Taylor -- WHAT'S CLOSE AT THE STRANGER DEAL

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There's inert folders highing smooth within
at hour's anchors spoken, preamble to stuff.

I'd said along this or thus, no other wanted
simpler signs were strewn about, like now
and shredded smooth intern the holders shot
and forded lines at the door's doubts.

A cooler spore might syntax-out, or finest
this the udder floor too skipped but laid
wrangles the sudden

What calms attention no smoothing
in the heart's own special terms
are noted in within sentencing out
what comes before; no outer spills
do calm also the same hours repeating
now within disturbance calls a banner
are no spoken hours in retreat, butter
skills what says you are against the
tissues spoke no gather rims-outer
silks to pall some southern density
and moves again into forgiveness
where these are the wooden ships.
Thus and no other calms attention
to spoken song he hears his own
rhythm, sailing out to pelts wood
ship no pattern smiling smokes
the automatic;
This was the pallor day.
And how you spoke no more than that
to measure out would speak too tenor
the flying duck was salient, too; a
pooler in his skim, no floater's flag
butt-pooled the former skein was fangs
the doubted paling at yr side; floods
of the life-snake her tongue is fire
at the Center's palm no wooden hours
the spoken thing is still his poem.

You'd release and term them out no other,
healing in the realms of light to hearers
in the dusk their drums are measured,
but slightly desperate in the fire of
maimed times, swollen as we are by the
emptiness of what preceded us, descended
into what must be recalled, and will, but
still scoped to forward hours her name
is your own identity in the realer scoops.


Thrust at a headier scope, you're revealed
to open scores the time's rightful flip.
These are the hours at hand, and mark the
flow of light along yr sign is here and
no other beckons too soon to hear recall
the doubter of the day; and too soon you
might say music is the red sky beyond, at
floods, too, skimmers sentenced deep within
the syntax of the landscape, folded as it
is within pressures from the cooling of
the disk we call forgiveness, mountains
rising from the flow of what is there already
melting in the sun's dying spots, who you
are within the scope of this thing is not
either measured nor is it called a fruitcake
in the wilderness; and still what you are
flinging is not anything new, it holds where
the dogs are, smiling faces between your
own reminiscence and the other side of light.
These borrowed things are not a symbol or
listening post, you are borrowed too soon, to
feather-out diction from loneliness, or hold
that the erotic is, uh, real.

I'd fold her down among the inert substances
of light, and pall some smoother memory than
what is pealed apart. No sudden scores are folded
down along no breaking in the scheming tides,
but music on the flow of something skinned apart,
yr own willingness to receipt is at the deeper
coil and sperm; and still, here is the woolen
sign you left on the common speech of your own
time; it is still a collar on the wilderness
of your own youth, and not to look back impels
you to speech if nothing else, marking reminiscence
a less transcendent being made of light,
how you are spoken thong and strain the pooler
skips are fluxed to shill and plasm
in the day before time itself.
No other wool is deep to spell, or
flat the spinner in his wig. A finish would
clear up all doubt or mark another smoother sign
the sign within, as holds her in the dark without
looking for what is there before you speak.
At new light, the ships are pealing
dead along the shore, his flags are folded
ashes in the wind, deepened by the reality
of what was once there in the urn before it
was a man, and said to call good bye yr hat
flailing in the air, circling out over the
empty spot in your heart to settle down
into the salt-sea of the bay and then
back in the wind and the surf and the
wind of what was the sea, a man in his time.

What was calmed ahead before attention?
I'd spooler'd no firm but bespoke too soon
in the holder shine, a flood of the attempt
and sailed into the field of vision was
this spoken as the term of light.
He'd said before, the term is light.
And answering tides were too soon swept,
his favorite voice too clerk a sign at sight.
The floater peeks and says hello, no sign,
or flounders out from left to right,
the hours in foreign songs are made, the
lighter hours call ahead for reservations
at the shore and calling out, hello ahead,
are you listening to doubt itself? And
when no answer comes, the fog is still
intense, without density, but ambiguous
nonetheless, and riding rigid waves too soon,
or reddened light her pooler skims to whimsy
in the moon. Cooler substances remit
the railer-babe too quick to call you down
into merit. And what is forgiven is
doubt itself, rising like dough in yr hand
a sudden floss to what is there.

Held as you are within sustenance, there
is a forward gasp which calls you back, down,
into the ether of what is there. You have a name.
The day before is not no picnic, and what is
difficult is also new, to release through
feeling and doubt into progress is still
another, newer rhyme on the pulse of the dragon.
The day before suddenness waits.

Portland
Feb 23.92