He Was Dissolving in Her, He Said

Her guilt skirt of contracted pleats rustled heavily, of its stitching I knew nothing. In the dream the man said that he whom we catch with the dead man’s body would get the blame. So he who ran with a gun from the room would be taken for the man’s killer.  But the gun only pointed out his intention.

& rush up to the girl who is her sleep, walking had been there, only before for she too was not the last person in the room.


Who was in the room?


My sibyl is comfortable with her dyslexia on the ground where energy flows upwards into trees.

There was mushroom tulle and ruffling in her gown and counter-stitches and ties across the mid-back.

In Jane Campion’s film, even mourning, yes even grief, is fashionable, which sounds negative, but I’m reconciled, given how much grief has to be an art, or has not. Trailing sedge and sky-ermine cape.

If a woman can’t say with her stitches then what of her dress?  Her shorn tresses, jagged, do say something different.

To be of the heath now.

The sticking of poverty, even with such dress, especially.  The subtle bubbling up threads of her who haunts him filamentally, I mean that as stubble too.

Her too.


O Fanny.  Heath black bramble grief-art of cross-stretch stick in the goss. He was dissolving in her, he said. He said, at lastly, was it dream or sleep?

(Sybil feels strange like the mark for reversal [put here] in editor’s marks. He lay on top of the lime bower in reversal, like an editor’s mark)


And fetal, each to each, they curled into—.

both tuning forks for energy, first-fresh.


Circle around the stitch-work; English oak coming out…


The poem is invisible too, can I say?


[my student complained because it wasn’t from Keats’s point of view


but wasn’t that the point; I liked him


before he said that, and then still, but why had he said that]



Then he who loved K. more (he thought) & could only get one with child who had been a practical stranger except for her scones.  She was her art of scones like swans and alone; he that never charmed Fanny struck back, and abandoned


Still, I listen

topping of cloud berries and the butterfly farm helps though they sweep the carcasses up with a stiff broom, strand of hair like an S, the leaves of summer, colors turned gray


She stood in         the alien corn; dead star-eye gives no relief

(But is there a way to indicate both limit and excess?) Breath, a jealousy guarding always that


intelligence of



Phylactery of twine,


space where all that dissolves joins?




On Seeing Jane Campion at a Second Screening of Bright Star



Abby Cornish was there but not as plump and young


Campion is now rereading the biography of Keats


“Mr. Brown” is not as bad but still he hates himself


Making the film was like a dream


The cinematographer kept the camera and equipment as far from the people and children as he could


“Inside” time protracted


The room was full of butterflies that needed very warm temperature





After Reading Andrew Motion’s Biography of Keats


Nightingales swarmed the heath when I walked there

(poor Tom is still on welk walk)

at city’s edge let me be shakespeared to many selves

When I walked the river’s edge

London petered out in primrose and sedge

Everyone pressed so upon me in any room

Claret rises to apartments of my brain unknown,

I’m filament charged against my time and Byron,

At my narrow coffin desk in mad pursuit

In this “soul-making vale,”

Against chameleon time I have always writ in unrest

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