:::::::::::::::::::::::::CAMILLE MARTIN
the mind is a body

moving in space
zooming in
on no such place
as coming together
as clear-cut moves
when all goes well

the animal’s infinite loops being
the case at each moment
urging the body to move
with no answer

to do one thing
and then another
always on the brink
of the idea of motion

an odd feeling can emerge
in the instant when the story
takes a path by chance
chance looks like
a remote source
it parallels
a random retreat
to an earlier choice

tangled nerves tilting toward
the story of their provenance
so the animal doesn’t know
what the animal is doing

it pretends to initiate a river
with virgin thought
with beginning and end
forgiving the spikes
in a perfect arc
on purpose

the animal singularity
feigns its episodes
of repeated matter

in the magic violence
of taking a step:
the animal, unable to think
about what to do next

practice makes
colorless the instrumentation
of one’s earlier actions:
a neutral state
simultaneous with glance

the animal organizes
the whole picture
the animal
launches gestures
aware of sound
and light patterns

suppose the animal launches itself
inside a boundary
the animal walks into a room
needing air

a swelling calculus of body space
warbling in the traffic of decision

what the animal calls the beginning
half-opens, half-closes
on its tender feet
fragments of the perfect arc in air
filled with wings in the scenery

the animal touches the focal point
with the shadow of a plan
to touch the focal point

the animal begins moving out of nothing
the animal begins moving each to the other

a flicker of an outcome
a needle on the dial:
in what measure is the strategy
to move out of nothing
dragged from the history
of a single gesture

stunned in the failed rain
the animal is blind
senseless it knows the migratory birds

at the onset of despair
the animal continues its timetables
& weeps crossing the river

in bird & horse & human
motion mutually resting
the idea of motion
itself churning & sputtering

repeat the arm
the arm in sandstorms
in each sandstorm

in a whim in any direction
gesturing causing succeeding states
on many maps
the answer being presented
to the animal
moment by moment

the aftermath of the reach
devouring origins of the breath:
in what does the motion begin?

no understanding
the body is able
is all
in a deep trance
wandering back and forth
to save the outcome
slipping and hitting its marks

the animal
constructing a scene
shaped by the moment
in a body of thought

the motion is not the mover
the anima’'s movement ends & begins
with the options
of the solid mind
neither are they different

like an actor
at the last instant
of deliberation
of every little movement
on the undetermined planet
the hopelessly moving body
late for consciousness

from “ letter letters”