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She's as spry as a slice of
young ******.
Siri listened without our knowing. Siri misheard.
My brain invents a new kind of sadness for me.
I wrap it up in newspaper and carry it
somewhere. Debone it, then grill. Wish
that it could swim, watch it swim
back in me. Certain kinds of meals you cannot share.
Weird, long, scary parts of you...
Those hours... Take notes
of them. Dream even
when passing by these old walls.
And paint them...
Debating the ellipses. If we do keep them, maybe in the title, too?
There's this bell that rings redbrick on days I stay in.
This bell that rings sings to me as a clubfooted horse.
Brassbeating hooves are as a chest at nightfall: Russian dolls are as real
as people: Everything is all alike as the "and"
and "and" that Bishop feared. There
is nothing in us from catching fishes then returning their swim. There
is nothing in us from drinking from seawater, from moth-tear, from
the moonlight that creepers in there when your mouth
     figures itself
as bell or foot: I should wake up. I should wake.  
I should, I should.
Westmorly Court. Church nearby. Wigglesworth Hall. Church nearby.

Also, regarding Bishop: 'A Cold Spring', 'The Fish', 'Insomnia', The Man-Moth', 'The Bight', 'Over 2000 Illustrations and a Complete Concordance'.
(after Sarah Manguso)

The darkness of your eyes is a curious darkness.
I mean when I close them. Old dances are equal
in distraction, like the shifts in subjects in a song.
That's just the different voice in a choir, I mean.
I mean, I mean to mean: Meaning from the random
statistical patterns of this... "world"? Is it right
to call everything "this"? "World" seems to mean "here" and yes,
with "us". Like the positivists told the scientists, "yes"
this thing with our eyes-- expansive eyes,
microscope eyes telescope eyes large hadron collider eyes mathy eyes
--these eyes are "I". Would I be comfort,
--and yes, the substance of that word and not the action
that entails the substance being a thing that can be
--would you be comforted by the thing that sees
being the thing that sees you as you? Imagine
some other singer singing that no other such thing
exists besides ourselves. Is that comfort? Is that
a person or a poem? Is everything in that the same? Wonder
with me back to empiricism. Knock on the table
and think of it not as Idea (that beneath our own
that we wished to wish). Wonder
with me on this song, back-of-the-envelope
calculated tipsily, alone, at the edge of a party
--okay, the party of (this) life. Wonder
with me, there, here,
always. And open
your throat.
This is a 'Poem of Comfort'.
Often as if a moth ran into the room like that--
wing-legged athlete-- defeated
by the lamp it saw bubbling though my window...
My mood swoops down as often as this,
totally normal but unexpected. The mind is a machine
(and you knew this too, Descartes,
given how you placed the souls of us
in some specific spot of our brains;
we know now that that gland has to do with our sleeping,
our souls have more to do with sleep).
When the gears of our minds turn they sometimes creak,
and you get words with such unfitting-- the moth
again, whose parents never said before they bashed
themselves clean into night-light, you don't
have to do this, you shouldn't do this, please
do not do this
and so they did this. The moth
does this as stuck gears, beating and beating itself
against the light as my own mind fails to mind
itself, and the sudden grey of it, familiar as
the glittering powder of its wings, particles floating as
a possible music of the world.
Then I flicker my eyes back to my work as if to say
how boring, I've seen this episode before.
I want to leave. You
are not what I want
to go. Listen, or wait,
whichever your ears will let of me.
Wallpaper has music.
My walls are empty. My eyes are
walls. Your eyes are
--well, you know how letters combine
to make all sorts of things? You will never expect
them. Sometimes the letters will make new
things. New things will be
spoken. New things will
exist. Like this. My walls are empty. My eyes are
walls. I want to leave
you as the ringing after a person shouts in an ear. Because of how long
ago, your voice.
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