Less Music, by Marjorie Welish

This freedom up.
A house difficult of exit, diffident of exit.

This flame up.
The false house, house of faulty entries.

This facade up.
The manifold worries architecture.

This face up.
To the artiface’s winding paths we lend our gloss.

This fact up!
This house multicursal and continuous.
Do you desire to disengage the frontispiece of devastating complexity?

This!
The curving house is green.
Do you wish to disappear from an escaping sentence?

Do you wish to forget the manuscript or do you wish to evict the manuscript?
This froth up.
The house ancient of exit, of antecedent impressions.

Figure, by Marjorie Welish

The poet redirected my likeness.

She said, “Not his decadence, which is a question.”
“Time," she said, declining his epidemic.
                            As if serrated,
initiatives lost modernity: aura reared up
although bracketing pages in comparative matters.
                                      “What time is it?”
                                                  “Perspectivism.”
Which is a question.
              As if serrated,
“as if” bracketing pages.

And time again, the timing of a wrecking ball—
                                Which is an overture.