Friday, November 4, 2016


The gray waves gnash
their teeth of foam.
Behind this verge,
the barren plain,
seamed, fissured. 
Ahead, limitless ocean.
The sky’s low ceiling
bears down upon it,
dark and darkening.
Here at the end of land
(not earth but cinders)
was to have been given
the ultimate direction.
The sea-voyage was to begin.
And indeed the book
is here, a huge volume,
open and upright–
it levitates, close to the hiss of spume,
immutable, desolate, cast
in lead. Wordless.
If with great force its pages
were made to turn,
they would knock, unresonant,
one on another,
void upon void.
You have come to the shore.
There are no instructions
The Book Without Words
(from a painting by Anselm Kiefer)

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