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Stick figures in a circle

Jedes Dasein scheint in sich rund.
(Every being seems in itself round.)

Karl Jaspers

Certainly aimless, dotterels
turn like Calder mobiles over
our heads: they’ve got it

made. We are never redeemed
unequivocally, making
the world with words: each

one pushes up the gullet
dislodging clods God knows
what. Driftwood lifting

driftwood I press you moist
in the infinite (who said that?)
sand. Jedes Dasein scheint in sich

rund. Come dusk the sun is more
ideal than phenomenal: only
your body is heavenly

I want to confirm but
things may look different
on other stars. To never make it

in time, to never
reach over
the rim of this world!

Our campfire’s cinnabar
unsettles countless nesting
pairs: they circle as you

turn towards me, these words
intermediaries
the fire attends to. Certainly.

It takes time to register the intent
behind a stare, the amount of blue
throughout cumulus: you

front up to distinct views
at ten in the morning
at seven in the evening.

The unattached understand
starworts grow towards
the centre. Let’s turn in.

20–26.2.1991, Cathedral Square, Christchurch

 


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