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   a n c i l l a r i u m s

--- K E V I N   V A R R O N E

For Nicholas language is much more difficult than what he does in space.
Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion


if an apple falls from a tree with leaves if a tree falls in a forest thatís been defoliated if sputnik crashes unceremoniously to the sea

(if nothing is plumb then nothing will be plumb then what will being plumb be?)

hindsight & midday. to a noonery, esau, Iíll take the culpa


idiom if you do idiom if you donít. que sera.

the senate hath debated & concluded w/a motion & announced the fact of us: vixerunt (i.e., they have lived)


state of sky on the whole unchanged: precipitation in sight not reaching the ground or surface of the sea

but earth is always earth & air is all around & the core of the system is stable


I saw the ghosts of lampposts light at noon, saw rain slick the boardwalk as it slipped from view.

what awaits beyond yonder--what universe-- for us, what what?


they say orpheus & icarus turned to salt for not wedding their lots in life (& not having the good sense god gave little green apples).

what can be said of me?

if you follow me north (695 to 95 to 495 to 95) Iíll drape the rearview;

if you fall into the ocean Iíll fish for thee


in days of yore, before gones were bygones (before our inflorescence grew waxen & our curiousity one-sided) people were judged on actions & the aesthetics of those actions

had genera named for them & their utterances banked in mid-air & handled & their turns of phrase forked their tails & tongues.

now the utterances have become disgruntled, small but abundant, not humming, gleaning


no signs where the seams meet, no schism in the joints of the sentence.

sting like a bee, I say


sky is no place for tape-measure or t-square; my wings are tapers, my stone is at the foot of the hill again


still no decision from apostolic see (though soon theyíll proclaim it dogma).

if we cannot compel wax to do what wax cannot, cannot heft the world or word, what will come for us?


those ignorant of history are bound to love the factoid.

come hither idus, sans fetters & tipsy; the fall of man is lodged in my adamís apple, my swallow canít find capistrano

& Iím trying to seduce you w/morse code


from this modest height, the planet seems camera-ready: the cosmos are quiet : tea & other things steep.

nappy gray horizon (where headstones crest the hillock like scrapers & trace sky w/nuance)

could a tale unfold if not for the tonsular lymph & chyle, the gumption in autumnís throat.

Iíll roll my stone against logic & hereís my final aphonic voir dire: it is sometimes lonely among men


the ghosts are coughing,

the city flexed its skyline

then morphed into an orphan


noon may turn out to be an isthmus,

7 stars around the moon more poetry than I can swallow

(some left for overs)


juncos on a sad penninsula turn out to be canaries in the melan.

(the petals turn out to be tepals. autumn is the squaw of my discontent)


(the map on my tongue says I could only be here)


masquerade as, define as, only contain what the outside world needs to know:

that is why he is said to be anonymous on his way forgetting


ere long, evening (the difference engine) will begin being binary dots & bits, will braille its glyphs

(as a curved arrow on a road sign)

& I will be threatening to change planets.

my mom is a sphere.


walk set route: dogs, things, point, jot. is this it, in the mouth, is it life chewed over, mulled cider

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