Prose & Proscenium, and: The Answer Is No

114 ANDREW JORON PROSE & PROSCENIUM Kissed blackest, white awaits all on a bleak block. One is too many in ideal order. Seeming ardor, the most of missed. No Guard to regard, no netted night. For all falls, fails, fools, feels–– As this space of spots stops time over Breath’s vibrato. Red verses read, no reverses no, being bang. Between acts: the shadows Stay alive, twist into the shapes of letters. It is said They look like actors, reciting lines. But to be what water, & what home to whom? 115 ANDREW JORON THE ANSWER IS NO Possessive of what whispering space–– No thought is thought: a ware aware Of the value of air. After yes, Law’s Walls falls, reason risen too heavy to heaven. Here & here, the sore series rests–– as thought without thing wears the ring. ...