Hans Arp sitting in a chair

"I was alone with a chair on a plain
 Which lost itself in an empty horizon"
                                 (Hans Arp, "The Plain")

Sounds alone

of a weasly disjointed memory. Hans is old,
  sinewy like the hand he prises
  day from, rising just there—
soul of chairs reified in his favor, but yelling

—& worth every bit the night it's dying of, itself—
  "Dark hole!" Char isn't old man's meat
  to make you rise, ice-lashed
enough & hand too stiff on the edge of ghosts

And what churns inside, like steeple o'er steeple, be
  the white inside him, ol' saint
  with mostly work on his breath
A chancy plain evening (& all that) for cold ol' boys