“Continue to speak this dialect, now that the house is burning”
Giorgio Agamben on poetry, When the House Burns Down.
What luxury, this rage!
It keeps me hot and vital as any
heart medication. First the human project,
then the sputtered failure of words.
Bereft; the minutes and hours
of flame give way. My desire fades,
no rays of sun light the heartbreak.
Quiet, so. Quiet, and still.
The stone. Ever stone. In the tart November sun.
Stone. Put my ear to. One in my pocket, shift
to the other. In my cheek. In the other.
On the grave, instead of flowers. What eeks
from layer to layer. The whole story
written. Cradled by the unsaid.