L'Arcane sans Nom XIII

XVIII. L’arcane sans nom

All the while just beginning to suspect rooms one could not enter—
At that moment the exact fit had been obtained. An otherwise febrile mind,
Commenting on the massacres someone is forever on the brink of,
Becomes entangled in a network of procedures; and occasionally, a gaze
Observing the person looking. Alongside invisible perimeters of another’s lazaret.
Hastening the day for a mailed letter, should we be asking to lie elsewhere?

Yet here and there within this world of renewed clouds with every tide, elsewhere
One lives according to a mineral nature. Revived in nettled beds, one enters
The profession, which each day brings to completion, and consoling in a lazaret
Of sorts. Waiting for the god who arrives unexpected—who does not mind
Ironing not put away, the stemware procured singly—being pictured through a gaze

Of contact lenses or sand mosaic; or at last, for what passes for the soul’s brink.

And it is the electric potential dragged up in you and me; in a cairn at the brink of
A ruin, it responds to varying effects of heat and pressure. Where electrons elsewhere
Reorient for an undecided purpose, they obey here. Like deformations in the crystal, our gazes
Were an embarrassment to each other. By induction, other late competitors enter
Such races waiting for the other to act. Ash mysteriously catches; bristled hair falls flat—a mind
Proceeded to wrestle with itself, while it was creating the bride shadowed by the lazaret.

Pressure sensors show a false signal; exhausted by luxuriance, in contempt of lazarets
Of future potentials—shuttered generosity for a journal’s sake—Buzzing intently, the brink
And estimated position of the frame intercepts our distress, never mind
Conspired futures. One’s replies, frightening and enchanting again, are elsewhere
Translated into mechanical force passing through an equivalent circuit. Gazes

Foreshortened in a glass acknowledge the mistake, yet embroider on than enter

Darkness. We perhaps convene at last, whenever a waning moon’s horns enter
Into question—internal currents relax their hold. Like shots fired through the lazaret
I had presumed you meant to communicate.  Rather than shield from my gaze
Your daylight, I incur serious disapproval to suggest subtle scents at the brink of
Disclosing my own. With exception of a lioness prowling these empty passages—elsewhere
An impossible situation of static measurements; in any event, of the mind.

After days of correcting blunders, dreams become bored of existing shapes—the mind’s
Plumose anemone blooms from the wall, and not many realize this until entering
Deep water, they are lost. Concealed within these stinging cells sits another, elsewhere
Clamping thighs with someone else—As if by agreement, those awake in adjoining lazarets
Promise recovery and fewer delusions than all these—Somewhere, there is a brink
Continuing to give the matter thought. Other unassuming flesh flung itself on gazes,

Their pauses were recognized in clashes between a mind’s poles. Unanswered gazes—
Befitting fuses—continue to burn elsewhere. Tourmaline is, translated out of the lazarets,
Rain by which one enters; mercifully, to be healed. Such are charges one is on the brink of.