[After John Chamberlain]
That we take hold of the edge—orange-bright
As the tongue touching the knife—
And pull it closer. It edges away, as edges do.
O tacit, O implicit, the holes bespeak
The volumes: the sky.
Bespoke as the case of you: the field
Edged by highway and waterway
And mineral, where we do drink
You. The artist said: I liked it
Because it had no subject. The critic liked it
Because without a subject he could not
Criticize it. In some future present,
Foreign moons nod their heavy heads,
Continue their lucid grooming.
Later the sun in august argument
Between you, debating the gods of childhood
And adulthood, and how the whiplash
Of memory (so edgy) and its slim sister,
Meaning, might best