Dina and Dan Don't Eat Since The Cyclone

I have stopped trying to say things

But now there are neuter grays

Where there were expected other colors.

And someone was expecting

But what were they expecting?

Many figures arriving here almost all the time are that weary of speaking

What were you doing in Germany?

Who were those friends of yours?

And you, holding a ghastly expression

Was expecting intelligence of them

Blue and red mostly.

A square. A few trees among parks

Maybe a fountain and the people around the fountain sitting.

Mainly girls, wearing a different sort of clothing

Who thought they were thinking

The even later period of men, who found Socrates

With a poem as a point of departure.

And to where were they going? To the ends of things, as such,

As they had proposed doing some night, a long time ago, the end of the river and the             

                buildings, in a predictable drama

They had built around the river, so that the people in the buildings could look on the river

On which they would put their many ships carrying their many goods they had built

For further towns, up and downstream. To the ends of their furniture as well and their walls

And the pictures they had hung on their walls in moments of great need for virtual space.

They had theirs secured in the innermost good of their seeking, but you get the sense

This is not okay, for something is else coming up, that challenges the quiet of the few

Basic continuities. For the goods and services had the look of people

But not as full. Many more were posed to look apt, but there were shadows

Mocking perhaps the extended hand of the sitting model and that which she was reaching for

Perhaps doubling another hand under which its contact was buried.

A room was likewise being made all this time  

For a few pronouncements also,

Men ceasing with their vagaries,

For the simplest speech

Seeking its torments

We called ecstatic

Well-being. And those, the rest of us, who said I am not unready

To cut my heart with pledges

On that moment, predicated  

About the time dusk communes with its lights and county fairs

And tells no more truth, everyone begins to call forth

The truth, with its poetry, its beaten canvas

And this we can't follow any longer, and we must go there

Into the abandoned fields of Ionia, for it is our fate the words we might mean

Are the other aspects of this deferential project

Of not speaking aloud their names, the colors. When they seem to escape us,  

That inarticulateness they leave behind crowds your tongue

And the grunting noise you make

In defense of yourself, is the only cry worth noting

Regardless of its being overheated.

Because that's all there is, when one doesn't have a settled position