Patricia Sykes

 

 

Deep (paraphrase of) Play

After a passage from Diane Ackernman’s Deep play

 

Patricia Sykes

 

The night a keyhole, the mind stepping through into distance.

From out of the dark riffs iceberg gardens,

filling the page, their strange white love

 

their perfumeless grip play deep

 

Writing “nature” is not the it of it

the i/I of her scribing hand not an arctic butterfly

feeding on a rapture she has no name for

 

play deeper

 

beyond the shining words, beyond and farther

than vocals abeyant in rock,

amber, permafrost

 

play deepest

 

among the nervy nerved instinctive self.

The foot on its throat is centuries, the weight

a ball and chain. Till the ground

 

that feeds the worm else dispassion builds,

annuls. The closest relative of nothing

is nothingplay deep

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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