The angel gnawing the marrow-bone holds
The hidden map of our whereabouts the
secret
Of our silent progress through each indeterminacy
Each contingency a progress with no
present
Between what has passed and what lies
ahead
What we speak is less than what is
spoken here
Where we find no essence no truth where
the angel
Gnawing bones holds the scale of
wounds we call
Forgiveness O we speak purely as if under
some
Obscene compulsion always and only to
be falling
Upward into the lofty abyss where we
perform
The office of eternity to be bespoke
by language
To become angels sucking sacred
words from bone
The speaking does not cease in what we
speak
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