Jack Foley and Ivan Argüelles




white side under goes
             who are all these Buddhists?
bleached blank the frame
             no man is.
music in its 17th century
             in the rectory standeth
resounds its unsounded Note
             the lewd don,
to name such things to sleep
in the beneath whorled leaf
sundered from the starry throng
             in Seventeenth Century
mind’s single core relent
             clear sunnelight
wake then Thou! worm devour
heart’s restless entity alive
             shines in the heart
in search of what underbrush
turn each blade around its green
link to nerve its everyness
             Lord, Thou singest
the holiday of aching dolorous
             (eye of bone)
will we pine then in the hostel
             Lord, Thou singest
wearing each other’s wretched
skin a mask of flame and dross
             Sword’s words!
the smoking cadaver in your eye
             Start with stars 
will it not wait for the avenue
             Then (all) is donne
with what tense invoke the Holy
             Light is shee
being and its unexplained event
             whose grave (a bracelet of bright haire!)
such is hush the eventide
             hath kisses
its instrument yet now dulled
             placed thereon
why the glass in its bleeding
             Shee weeps thy—
light why the merry-go-round
             “Death, be not—”
its painted tigers whirling
             No man is an I
in the eccentric lamp of time
             Nor woman neither
do sit then Soul and nod off
             Stand stille
reckon as no more the day
             and I will read
when thought creates its Air
             This is the shadow
move then around Love’s pyre
             This is the deepest shadow
and sitting for the hour whole

             John Donne
divine which is the entrance
Anne Donne
and which the exit of Paradise


—Ivan Argüelles / Jack Foley