"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
