My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer

“The window is a sword . . .”

Give up your vices, burn your jukebox, Draw mustaches on music, paint a real mother On every non-objective canvas. Befoul only Those things that belong to you. “Beauty is so rare a thing,” Pound said, “So few drink at my fountain.” You only have the right to piss in the fountain If you are beautiful. “The window is a sword . . .” The window is a sword. In the wet air the glass rain falls. I sense the early morning rain. I hear it drop against the window, die there, as if the glass were violent. I feel your body move. You are so far away. In all your sleep, the murdered rain will not cry out. I turn and place my hand upon your groin. This window is a sword. The window is an angel. It kills the memories of the outside air as they surge in to reach us. Look, you move. You are not safe in sleep. Your hands are clenching sea wind from the air. You groan. Softly, Leech! No childhood rain will rise to drown this room. No longforgotten wind will chafe your flesh. This window is an angel. The window is a mirror. We see ourselves upon it. Passionless, it separates our flesh against our flesh until we sleep alone. You, firm in sleep, become the room and I become the rain behind the glass. It keeps a watch so we see ourselves across its opaque edge. It passes light. It keeps us separate. This window is a mirror. The window is a door. All beauty is behind it. Look, Leech, the light, the light that vanishes! Behind the cracks, the chinks—vague tigers walking under vanilla suns, tired oceans, monsters of the air. All beauty is behind it. See, Leech, the light! This window is a door. The window is an ocean. Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 47 47 ...