from the adrift of samus aran
What is left , afterGold has touched
the undersides of hands , in a half-completed
Circle of women and men and grey
white
sheets onto which
paint is thrown ?the whole of ZEBES
is crystalline - itis thrown .
You get – it resists
contemplation ; it resists contemplation
as
plumes of Goldsmoke packing
down hardly as life-jettisoned
from a Carcass of brilliant steel
resists value , as death
resists value among corn crakes, the edges .
At the edges of fields i grew into myself ,
as a bulb groans
into darkness ; sending out light sliding
like a blank hoop across the Direction ,
