joseph spece
Beckmann's The Night

Came in through a window is the Night.

The victims are harrowed to their digits. Couldn’t this be Lascaux, could it be Alsace where the buffalo fit in a thumbprint. In a hanged man one blue vein makes a leg; toes curl, worms out of soil; someone does the hanging bodilessly. Now—where did the hangman’s body go?—two feet on the far right beside a shoulder—to whom belong, from whence hung. His?

Came in through a window is the Night and tied her to the mullion—? There’s no How to be made of it, the Night, where a jester makes smile all wrapped in the drapes and man also makes bandage for his head. Thugs are by the sill in two ties. That’s smart dressing.

Who put the phonograph here, the one with the red inside, why the drafting table set so in the salon, is it, who painted a redhead in profile and put her so she watches from similitude with one brow.

There are too many feet everywhere. Who unstitched the corset and splayed the legs and set the taper so straight compositionally.

Whosoever set the Phallic compositionally in the Night—this way—his bailiwick is the day, Dr.

But whosoever set the taper one up and one down made a second frame in the frame with this right angle; and his Eristic, OK, came in through a window—is the Night.

I tried to make a line from every looker to see who spies the broken dish. It broke quite when someone dropped a club on it. Here’s one thought: there’s much less space in the Night after all. Vagrant wants a window in the Night. Only the rarest body bursts the eaves framing it. Six miles from here the lilac arbor is filled with lilacs.

Once the punctuation of it in a ravaged salon, once again its drowsy flow in the lawn, this night named N.