for pigpen (diane di prima)
velvet at the edge of the tongue,
at the edge of the brain, it was
velvet. at the edge of history.

sound was light. like tracing
ancient letters w/yr toe on the
floor of the ballroom.
they came & went, hotel guests
like the Great Gatsby.
and wondered at the music.
           sound was light.

jagged sweeps of discordant
light. aurora borealis over
some cemetary. a bark. a howl.

at the edge of history & there was
            no time

shouts. trace circles
of breath. all futures. time
was this light & sound
spilled out of it.

                  flickered
& fell under blue windows. flase dawn.
and too much wind.

          we come round.
make circles. blank as a clock.
spill velvet damage on the edge
of history.