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Nothing

Nothing
substance utters or time
stills and restrains
joins design and
 
 
supple measure deftly
as thought’s intricate polyphonic
score dovetails with the tread
sensuous things
keep in our consciousness.
 
 
Celebrate man’s craft
and the word spoken in shapeless night, the
sharp tool paring away
waste and the forms
cut out of mystery!
 
 
When taut string’s note
passes ears’ reach or red rays or violet
fade, strong over unseen
forces the word
ranks and enumerates...
 
 
mimes clouds condensed
and hewn hills and bristling forests,
steadfast corn in its season
and the seasons
in their due array,
 
 
life of man’s own body
and death...
The sound thins into melody,
discourse narrowing, craft
failing, design
petering out.
 
 
Ears heavy to breeze of speech and
thud of the ictus.
Autres oeuvres par Basil Bunting ...



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