a propos de Mallarmé

you speak in riddles,

am I expected to reiterate, as if

composure compliments meaning

within the play of words, or edits

each account, we may juggle

in essence staged, or reinterpreted,

in accord with alleged trickery,

way back to source, so why return

once limited by narrow chance,

or complete deception, why not

a certain slightness, as if leaning

in close or shying clear, while all

balls hover as though transfixed,

why wait to rehearse each time,

as if truth acted on gain or trance,

indicated within its misconception,

so pick the card of choice, there is

after all, only one, as there always is,

whatever value or meaning it holds,

within its grasp, however well it fits

the curve, whoever’s back is turned,

whoever blinks or forgets the page

of flight within its misinterpretation,

or presumption of result, a coin

tossed will never land on edge,

the lady’s skill inevitably remains

hidden, paper wraps stone

and a chance thrown

will never annul dice

for Brian Coffey

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another day

from this point

stilled by the sudden opening up

I adjust sight to land falling away

seawards across soft rolling contours

of single storeys, gable ends interlocking

parallelograms of tile and glass

pines and oaks protrude from hidden

cul de sacs and crescents in a blurred grey

evening light, there is a deep feeling

of belonging, not as habitation

but quiet inner joy, a connection,

a completion, a oneness

that normally I would share

with trees hedgerows and fields

these suburbs spread across valley’s structure

speak quietly of belonging

of hidden lives

this inner voice holds all

within the stillness

of being, a wholeness

though subtle and brief

of spirit and profundity

a personal vision

impossible to convey

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of being

a true solitary nature

lies within the house

we inhabit yet with

the prospect neither

may as ever return

rooms full of memories

not quite within grasped

their furniture and detail

as old clothes in order

to see backs of

windows on landscapes

in constant motion

considered worthy

of ignorance

we walk corridors past doors

that beckon rather promise

glimpse shafts of light that imply

realms of birds are infinite space

this house we have decorated

to appease comfort will always

hold the silence of indignation

until we let glances disintegrate

like rain to saturate structures

of silent separation

a true solitary nature lies within all

promises of habitation and bygones

where only if known become uncluttered

less as well as with all frills waylaid or

trimmed can achieve true remembrance

experienced without sense of completion

knobs, feet, arms, pedestals, allegedly

polished by a thousand shakes, coverings

crossed by far more in order of sense

as oneness with winds of growth and that

illusory sense of falling away below where

there is no return to knowing being

if within is in being without