A work of art is a world of signs, at least to the poet’s
nursery bookshelf sheltered behind the artist’s ear.
I recall each little motto howling its ins and outs
to those of us who might as well be on the moon
illu illu illu
A tiny artificial theater of the world. I am here to slay the
dragon in the ready-made name of an earlier Susan. While
there is still time do you know anything about my watch
being stopped? Put your hand over my eyes and say I have
got it in my mind.
Ceramic, plaster, laquer, newspaper
Certain bronze elements found among the Pied Piper’s
personal effects have been moved from one exhibition
room to another. Here are messages. “The Face of God.”
“Dust.” “Time is a river.” Props and other disinherited
paraphernalia are never enough.
I have to go in and catch my breath
It’s a manic condition; barbaric conceptions of an “other
self” sawing away our finite future as we approach the
laws which govern clutter; leaving at death to return no
more although fitfully visiting old haunts with the aid of
metal, clay, guache, glass, glue
Susan Howe, “From Titian Air Vent” from Debths. Copyright © 2017 by Susan Howe. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Source: Debths (New Directions, 2017)