Suppose you surrender till we hum
After subtracting yourself from the experience, the remainder floats above. It says: surrender as we hum about you. A way to work out the meaning remains, but it slips undersea with occasional crater. Suppose you surrender till we hum about you. The sea is an expanse of remainders.
The above may sound irreverent. It's irreverent to suppose that humming means particular things, being more of a music. One sound may mean many kinds of emphasis. We know the color beforehand, though seeing it is a different matter. If we smell it is by intuition. Come through to convert grace to surrender.
There I drift drawing a stammer. I mean: I am merely humming. It will pass without artificial aid.
There is no softer real estate than the birth chamber. A day-long stammer plus remainder.
The above may sound irreverent. It is irreverent to push a person through. And reverent, pulling the seaboard to pasture.
But it'll pass. There is no hypocrisy in humming. No consistency of position when only a mouth vibrates the air. Suppose you note the ripple effect of cross-bathos playing across its mechanism.
Is it ok if even mmm-tinually the air abandons its conversation with you? It will give only a certain ineffable emphasis, at home in the vast wall of bad cloud.
Humming about you.
Note: This poem previously appeared in Catch Up.
Suppose a melody makes
I put a little something in there, moving you around that way. It had to be a loose repertoire of concurrent estuaries, in mind, when we lined up the planets together. Arcing around us, ball-sized in space. I can't help but feel that none are D material. Played at once, after all, we found space was relating between them, or we were the space relating them. What it means to give unto thee, awake or dreaming awake. Each pre-leavened instant already a vast recline.
Hey heck is regular, awake or seeming awake. Will you establish continuity or turn a different way? Possibly continuity has a surgical sense, or else the population of possible things to say is growing.
I mean that we started with a small number of things we could both say, and said them together. But then they became song and melody makes the corporeal matter free.
Well I don't mean matter-free, but possibly the best kind of weather is the kind all of us are eating. Made up of song. As one eye I could see from one perspective, only. But suppose I were constantly putting my eyes into yours in order to make a melody with you. Then what kind of space could exist around us? What kind of being are we when we are looking?
Possibly this is the way all beings make language. An exchange, when what you remember is what you eat of us, all of us, a lot of us are eating. We find sound is relating us, or that we are sound.
Sound's doctored fruit.
Suppose it is impossible to suppose
It is impossible to suppose a giant the object of love, mouth noises, impossible.
It is impossible to suppose our shadow moves as we say "excuse me" to it. Seeming to decline and moving out of vision are often the same thing. I should do well to heed my small range: blank tape, much of it mournful, breaks down the strangely alive surface until it hardens.
It already hardens, an afterimage of the middle decline, timed with deep metals.
Suppose I can rotate the biological room. Pull someone pinned to the stripe light. Or blot out a choice of direction.
It is impossible, I suppose, with mouth noises, to move the flesh any way but out. From one room to its hangar. From one library to another, bigger one. At the center is an origin, mainly empty, and there one must take off the giant in order to be loved. For I fear it is impossible to but pass a little wayside. Holding onto the intricate systems of scavengers.
I should do well to heed their surplus.
It is possible to watch the meaning of gentle move from thing to modified gesture. Suppose by "thing" I mean hair, and "gesture" I mean circumprecious. The wrong corridors are taking us; they rotate in their transversing.
I will take off the giant of my light in order to be loved.
Karen Weiser is the author of To Light Out (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2010) and the soon to be released collection of long poems in correspondence with the books of Herman Melville, entitled Or, The Ambiguities (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2015). She is currently writing a libretto for an opera. She wants you to know that these poems consider what it is like to birth and raise small children.