Conviction fills the body
The presence of dead souls
flute like at the base of the ear.
A particle enters the soundings
suddenly open, a door
separating bright from careless
patterning, forcing a language
memory designs from sleep.
The body is more primitive
attached to the ground.
A frame lights up horizons
to lead forward, larger than life.

Animals eat words,
exorcize this great and glassy news.
The end of the road a walking flower
as in any direction, another.
Peripheries meet, a syntactic
forecast through hostile centuries
a slow drawing out of detail
reflecting greys.
To confirm the ear catches
is measured until it disappears.
Breaking code, no one recalls
appeal to the surface of fact.

The flames are sponges
in smoke blackened hour
Blighted fruits words can't grasp.
Among stations immeasurable across fields
a flashing sign
fixes only certainty
Two eyes blinking through a door.
The missing head must be seen whole
where one word leads
clouds to accident of end.
The machine never tires.
Edges of stations start to come in.

The head of a king's son
multiplies at cross roads
an immutable exchange. You are the world
wings of oblivion and endless drilling
a shadow a things to come
the wind on their heels.
In pursuit of a ship in harbor
the voices of towns without body
stars without voice in space.
A night for the blind.
Passing through his fingers
the short black branches of the eye.


(Barrett Watten. "Radio." 1-10. Berkeley: This, 1980. 53-54.)