Today's poem

A language creates miracles. Do you see the Tower of Babel or another?

Eighth Sky

BY Michael Palmer

It is scribbled along the body

Impossible even to say a word

An alphabet has been stored beneath the ground

It is a practice alphabet, work of the hand

Yet not, not marks inside a box

For example, this is a mirror box

Spinoza designed such a box

and called it the Eighth Sky

called it the Nevercadabra House

as a joke

Yet not, not so much a joke

not Notes for Electronic Harp

on a day free of sounds

(but I meant to write “clouds”)

At night these same boulevards fill with snow

Lancers and dancers pass a poisoned syringe,

as you wrote, writing of death in the snow,

Patroclus and a Pharoah on Rue Ravignan

It is scribbled across each body

Impossible even to name a word

Look, you would say, how the sky falls

at first gently, then not at all

Two chemicals within the firefly are the cause,

twin ships, twin nemeses

preparing to metamorphose

into an alphabet in stone

                                                           St.-Benoit-sur-Loire

                                                           to Max Jacob

(from the website of Poetry Foundation)