A Poem Not a Picture

Roy Fisher

On a ground remarkable for lack of character, sweeps of direction form.

It's not possible to determine whether they rise from the ground's qualities or are marked on to it. Or whether, if the first, the lines suck the ground's force up, or are its delegates; or if the second, whether the imposed marks mobilize or defeat it; or both, in all cases.

Out of a scratch ontology the sweeps of direction form, and, as if having
direction, produce, at wide intervals, the events.

There are wiry nodes made of small intersecting planes as if rendered by
hatching, and having a vapid, played-out look. But they are the nearest the field has to intense features. Each has a little patch of red.

 

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