form
It arrives and leaves without saying anything. It might be just the knocking. Would you try?
Nothing is final, or finalisable.
Possibilities persist. Form is such. It arrives
from an availing place and, shaped in passing, returns
where we cannot enter. Possibility. Form after form,
incompletable; though without completion
there is nothing. Nothing is assured.
I love you. Is complete.
It is because time is a measure and gets stranded—impeccable anywhere other than its appearance in books. How’s that for making sense? It happens in the room next door and all you have to do is close the door, open a window, and allow the wind to enter and do its own thing. A bird calls. A cat’s tail flickers on the sill. Our Curnow, preeminent poet of the menagerie, considers the literal metaphor enough. He knows exactly where it all starts—with an eye on either side! Or left hanging: like a bat. How does one look after their cleavage?
I say arrives. Others—arise. The sound is similar, and that is a factor in obtaining meaning. Other poets are convinced they steal fire from on high, or dwell within the all-seeing eye of a goddess. Looked at backwards, form is a kind of assumed fecundity. Mere genitalia. Although a vacuum cannot have what’s on the inside sucked out. Unlike form, in this definition.
Meaning, like life, is lumpable, non-linear, concedes Hossenfelder.[i] By this I mean that there’s a congealing according to spacetime and the considerations of the community-of-interest. Or, a newcomer poets@116bankstreet, in the time they take to present their poem, construes a latent universe of poetry and its entourage. It means everything, so to speak. Why ever else would we chip off a fragment from the entire block of what’s doable and deem it sovereign? In a not dissimilar fashion, another perspective, which takes into account the literature written in English over known time, other considerations prevail. Must diversity entail what’s reconcilable? Whose bird flies that high for that long? As if a single meaning eclipses all else—and for whom, given truculence is the operative characteristic of the species? Neither scale attributes value in a uniform manner; although cross-sections provide another plausible outcome, like planaria, where even diversity is the same.
True fiction, says Gerald Murnane, is akin to emptying the contents of one’s mind. But what carpet should be looked under and, after all, for what—a kind of detritus? Even his publishers considered his fiction might more appropriately conform to the essay genre. Where does the cat situate themself, observing that bird? Why on earth does the world of fiction want to follow the rules of spacetime, anyhow—another crap convention? Easy sounds like that and is not hard to do. Like a claw.
Who owns this John? Is he part of his own meaning?
To the extent that nothing’s manifest. There is reason to have language.
note
[i] Small objects collect into larger ones and larger ones follow new natural laws of their own (up down, in out, now then). <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tw9sr05Vtso>