The Three-Fingered Man

the correspondence is down
today it
is the starlings on the wires

and in the brush and in the
open fields
and in the brooding sky, that

breaks in sudden, for sunlight
and for
clouds and for the wash of

quite sudden light. it is a place
you hate
and a place you go to- it is

that man reading a book in the room
reading a
book in the yellow room, with his

yellow eyes, and the book too-
like a
moon. he says this man about

the immeasurable outdoors, as
wide as
all outdoors, and his eyes are yellow

like the sun when it comes about,
when the
brooding day clears into green and

white winter-

white winter is in december. this is january and the small starlings flock from the wires and fall down the
scraggy field, by the wide lick of black road
by the man who is reading his book,
who is reading his book in
the small yellow room
with the sun staring down his eyes like starlings made from the sun-

in the white sky

there is a place in this. he may have been born on the fringes of the city,
he may have come far and long, abounding the music of travel behind him
he may have interrupted the personable planets with his yellow eyes,
until the wheat blossomed into fielded crowns, and the stars came about
like small birds in the winter

sky. there is
a place in this
he did not say not
with his eyes in the
smallest part.

he may have been born kicking out at the impenetrable immutability in
waters, in all the waters emptying into one place, and one old rain, and he
may have sat upon the mountains where
the waters came to head- and

he reads his book in the mountains.

"the deviance is in speaking fully-" that is.

"shit" he says standing by the window "shit to all
the wide fields and the wide
eyes of the fields, that stare
and stare up at the sky. they do not know the sky. they
have not touched it. they have not
furrowed under the astral projection of that
sky. they

do not know day. they do
not know night." his cursing

is steady as he holds up his book in the yellow room.
his cursing is in english. it sounds ancient. it sounds the
oldest projection of deviance, standing abroad the strong
breast of the fields,

and kicking in the dirt. it is manic this. he curses. he turns
the page and curses.

when the moon
returns the copse of
wood is made of
ice. the sky is white
in january.

and there are warm days
in winter.

there was a victorian west, that john (of the Irish people) told about, and that
he (this man of yellowed eyes) went through. and he spoke a Keynesian tongue
in that victorian west, colored the steel of gray and of black, and of muted blues-
in that victorian west,

it was not winter, of the wise irish nation, john returned, and he
was speaking of rivers that had not an eye about
them and did not see the men who came beforehand, to make
the rivers into Things-with-Names-

(the victorian west swallowed down the steel tracks and the
nameless rivers and the old stars)

this man of yellowed eyes said "Smith was a damned fool and Keyes died with the forties."

the tongue of politic stretched over his
victorian west with the migratory starlings

of European cities and European

and the sun came tomorrow, and tomorrow the sun
shone in the yellow room. he is not here, he is at
the furthest place that is a place he is on the road
to town followed by the eyeless starlings who can see
the moon through their wings and their small fragile
legs upon the wires-

"shit no one says things anymore."

that was what he said and slung on his cotton
coat in the slate yellow room (there was not a touch of sun)yesterday

and no one said a thing
as he left with his book. there were some smiles. they

were like the sun and completely
unlike anyone talking. he said in the end with
his folded book people could say things without talking. in the sun

no one smiled.