poetry is indeed weeping
when no homeric
novelty of heroism is
to be given applause...
shame we never earned
a second chance to celebrate
such blind heroism,
instead we celebrated
a heroism of reading a book,
because poets dared not attach
themselves to the acts in the world
as heroic enough to write about,
instead choosing to write, to celebrate
the consolation of reading,
as if restoring homer's eyesight
to the scenes at troy, which never
took place in our aeon worth
the light, instead the darkness
of being overly written over to a darkening,
to keep humanity's darkest hour
known as the holocaust, hidden well
by the words of youth in poem
for a sense of longing and misunderstood love,
here no need to illuminate the slaughter,
here the need to darken the slaughter
with poem on poem to keep the light
darkened, and claim and call defeat:
here then to write a defeat
and rekindle scenes where no word dare
encounter a limb of the activity
that would couple the activity to body
and the word to grammar...
here no word pass, but cinema remains
the truest concern: it simply
keeps us lip-reading / palm-reading, while
so much soul dilates oozing from the eyes
not looked into.