We Are Here to Slow Time[we are here to slow time to break over us not considering so much
making poems but where poems come from 
“Equilibrations” 
create a space that escaped the grasp of power and its laws, without
entering into conflict with them yet rendering them inoperative] 
come, here, Angel
this is the center of time
time’s backwater
her kerchief her bilge
come here
register
emergency 
stand, here, Angel
her dust, her wind
of politics’
vented fire
ventricle left other
cracked
oar
we are in
that see 
having been the arch mouth
having been the blank
through which the demon of circles
might
enter 
what if
my own being
broken
is the new law 
Angel, I am
dust
cover me
velvet        air
blue it is not light
is not invisibilty
it is space
it is visit—
ation 
 
UntitledHour in which I consider hydrangea, a salt or sand plant, varietal,
the question of varietals, the diet of every mother I know, 5 pounds
feels like 20, I have lost… I have lost, yes, a sense of my own
possible beauty, grown external, I externalize beauty. Beauty occurs
on the surface of plants; the sun darkens the skin of my child, he
is so small, he is beautiful (I can see; it is obvious) and everything
about him is beautiful. Because he is small, the bite of some insect
—its venom—makes his hand swell. He appears to feel nothing.
He smashes his skull against the floor. He screams. I hold him in
my lap on the kitchen floor in front of an open freezer, pressing a
pack of frozen clay against his forehead. He likes the cold. I see;
it is so obvious. Hydrangea. When I move, when I walk pushing
my child’s stroller (it is both walking and pushing or hauling,
sometimes, also, lifting; it is having another body, an adjunct
body composed of errand and weight and tenderness and no
small amount of power), I imagine I can feel this small amount of
weight, this 5 pounds like 20, interfering with the twitch of every
muscle in my body. As an object, a mother is confusing, a middle-
aged mother with little spare flesh, I feel every inch of major
muscle pulling against gravity and against the weight of my child,
now sleeping. This is the hour for thinking hydrangea. Let no man
look at me. I stop to brush the drowsy child’s little eye. His face.
He barely considers his mother. I am all around him. Why should
he consider what is all around him? Perhaps what is missing is a
subtle power of differentiation. I am in, therefore, a time of mass
apprehensions.