[syndicate] my work is perfect roundness

[Alan Sondheim]

my work is perfect roundness


my work is perfect roundness
there's nowhere to break in
perfect music's soundless
silent in the din
of others' cries and speaking
always in the light
of bodies cursed and leaking
wounded in the night.
i cannot stomach answers
i cannot harbor talk
languages are cancers
speech an idle squawk
the tension in my style
nothing is at stake
i'm thinking all the while
for buried closure's sake
bones are made from flesh
flesh is made from bones
caught in indra's mesh
speaking monotones
i closed the doors to thought
and opened wide to life
whatever is, was sought
appearances are strife
i closed the world's thick door
i gathered meanings all
and always what's in store
has always been my pall
i lived inside my death
and died outside my work
my breath was dying breath
i died inside the murk
that struggled spoke in cant
said nothing left to say
said nothing left to rant
decoded my mainstay
what fell apart lay far away
what's nearer haunted me
i conquered near and far alway
what's near taunted me
what's far deserted me
in utter quietude
i circled circled me
my language hewn and rude
i cast away the spell
and burned symbolic core
dark days upon me fell
and night upon me bore -
"my work is perfect roundness
i see within the night
i hear in perfect silence
i die within the light" -
so do not speak o stranger
o gods stay stock and still
i never was in danger
of thought i've had my fill
i worked my way through column
language text and poem
theory hard and solemn
allowed me in its home
theory cold and wondered
brought me to an end
from earth i am asundered
there's no way left to wend
there's nothing left to send
from earth i was and thundered
from death-life i did fend
from life-death nothing pondered
and this was what i penned
and this was vowed and written
and like a missive kenned
and sealed and forgotten
and brought once more to bend
against all conversation
against discussion's play
without equivocation
that closes down the way