andrew joron

I Am the Door

I, my
           being to begin, my die
To decide my deicide, am

Gone again to distance, & sand, & stand

           by fear
Entranced before the door.

Or do I travel as travail of a veil?

This science
Is that séance of the shore, the unsure.

All word-dawn
           is downward, so I raise
Reason to look to lack.

No & no, where the word runs red—

No (cure for suffering): no (furious core).

Because cause
           is curled
In a burning world—
           fact is also
           act, a faked effect.

Call of the best beast, as mind is moaned—

As one commands the other.

           The news comes wrapped
           already ripped.

           (The system of a mystery

Threw this through that.)