Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

Philosopher’s Stone

It's like this. There are quantities. There's on-         goingness—there's an underneath. Over it we lay time: although it's more like takes and re-          takes by mind (eyes closed) then clickings of its opening-out and the open fills with gazes—thousands over some visualizations—(or some places if you wish—I wish)—a few or no gazes over some (because somewhere there must be a meadow with just such                   grasses only two or three gazes have touched—because it is touch—and other places where millions have laid down their mental waters in this manner). Above and below our gaze, I don't know for sure—(although I believe there must be a truth)—gravity lies, is laid, in—like a color being washed over the whole—a tint with a direction in it—or rather a tint that places tiny arrowings, or the sensation of pulling, of being pulled, over all of the visualization—eyes open now—ov

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