well, this old crow is making
a hook to dig out words
from the bottom and top
of things–thus, the middle
voice’s myriad in definitenesses,
infinite circulations of
the body’s mind–every sorrow,
every joy and in between crevasses–
every word of this and that
I’ve caught the unease
of old age in my hands
and wrung it dry
in order to remain
within its kaleidoscope,
there to collide among all colours
of kalos–beauty
of eidos–form
of skopos–watcher of
lovers of
irreparables
Blaser EPC Page
(C) 2009 Estate of Robin Blaser. Used by permission