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Two Poems

Letter One

Letter Forty Five

POETRY BY
ALBERT FLYNN DESILVER

from 'Letters To Early Street'


LETTER ONE

Dear Demian,             this
               is not the first one or even the beginning—
Early Street doesn't have a when.
It doesn't begin, "Perhaps I shall practice being
dead to the world ..." How dead to the world of
sensation, thought, idea is — I am not my idea
so perhaps I shall practice being
dead to the world — word, which is all idea, as one
practices knitting, guitar, medicine, or poetry
for that matter an unattached ecstatic
rather affectionately yours.
For Halloween I am spirit dressed up as matter, dead
to the world of sensation (lank, bristling,
vacantly quenched).
I discover letter one will not escape
its singularity, the womb
looms always in my yearning. This
is the thought I'm not and yet I write
with craving — a watershed, a womb, a wreath
on manzanita at my finger tips. There is ink
in the wreath of manzanita scrawling
upon the clouds who blur up the sweat-drenched sun —
now just a pile of weepy ash defining the wind, masked
as your thinking, the womb. So everyday I practice
this knitting with flame — ice-skate across eyeballs, strum
the double yellow lines, strung
across Early Street's dual-string asphalt guitar —
nurtured by this absence of when,
this song that reveals how it doesn't begin
or end with being dead to sensation's wind.


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