to tallow-cream slabs of animal fat. to moulded chalks & life-sized stacks
\nof felt. to a reconciliation with brown. to kerosene burns, honey, horse-hair
\nroughs. to blankets soothed by blanket-stitch & the gentle invitation
\nfor body. to everything the colour of Crimean steppes
\nwithout the disaster of shot. to the healing way
\nof gold. to coyote-talk, sulphur, leather, crash, to open-cage
\nconversation. to blackboards & wolf to an organic inevitability
\n& cure. to hospital straps, hammers, the axe to a wooden Ukranian sled
\nwith fixed measure of humped lanolin flax. to matters of blood, planes,
\nequations, horn. to a unisex sling & felting belt. to wool. to altruism.
\nto wax. to all linings of iron parts who embody (and care for) the upper
\nconceptuals. to consecutive nights in the corset for life-sized hare
\n& 8 perfect hours in a backrest (for a fine-limbed person) in a field.
\nto all the hare-types of the world & to the blessing thereof <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
nothing tells us when we are there (or when
\nwe are not) when to leave our soil-gods <\/p>\n
to the warm invasion of fungus and worm and when
\n(if ever) to look up and pray. the extinct languages<\/p>\n
of Fagus and Quercus hang green. their perished camouflage
\nwith mycelium trim wedged between dead-mans <\/p>\n
leaves and bark-grey documents of sky (that blur
\nwith the wind) are doomed we are told. <\/p>\n
we are told not to feed any more ghosts<\/em> through each other of one tree to the next. no more khaki stealth. no needles. nothing tells us the xylem. or where the first amoeba seas <\/p>\n when dinner talk abruptly stops, and silence falls over its guests in Saharan sand one night, someone will say; un ange passe<\/em> allowing the gap that time makes for an angel to pass; will even look up, as if to stare the roof off, between us here. whilst only the giant fresco of night snagged on its stars later, the guests\u2019 primitive self before explosion; when a room knowing itself An Economic Value sonnet (with no Volta) for Joseph Beuys to tallow-cream slabs of animal fat. to moulded chalks & life-sized stacks of felt. to a reconciliation with brown. to kerosene burns, honey, horse-hair roughs. to blankets soothed by blanket-stitch & the gentle invitation for body. to everything the colour of Crimean steppes without the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":283,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[371,372],"tags":[375],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nthe way a whole forest moves silence from the hush <\/p>\n
\nno soft-emerald ooze no sifting for divinities allowed.<\/p>\n
\n(now viscous and woody with time) keen <\/p>\nhere, in France<\/h5>\n
\nlike the freak rain that buried our village lawns <\/p>\n
\nand everyone will nod, feeling the narrative sag,<\/p>\n
\nfor him to work his slow arc over our heads. some<\/p>\n
\nbecause such messengers still exist and move <\/p>\n
\nwill feel the beat of his exhausted wings, find greying feathers<\/p>\n
\nwill recall its decaying gods. this sudden pause is like the air-lock <\/p>\n
\nto be on the brink holds its breath <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"