Not Even an Automaton
Not even a first person account
Of English pushing in
A shard in memory, in
Forming, preventing forming
The cards are laid out one by one
In a growing spiral with only illusory revision
If the cormorant is under the surface of the water
The cards are laid face down and
If the cormorant is above the surface
The cards are laid face up
Between these two faces
A surface forms on which
A second game can be pretended and played for writing
A layering game, one which is not us or a person writing
You overlay your hand bones and ribs and as though hypnotized
Between and through them your dream counterpart sees a drum machine
Grinding bones and notes in its chewing
Dealer deals five cards to each player
Dealer becomes Counter-Audience
All other players are Ghosts and hold cards face out
Cards from deck are occasions for hearing
Hearts vs. all other cards form a surface
For English and modular dream material to disappear into
An empty figure a dark blue shroud
A single icicle which has not been
Sufficiently imagined and so will not melt
Simply disappearing in winter
Among any crowd of icicles
Let us find virtue together,
You want to hear yourself say
But he can not be talked to
He can not remember or hear