Sonnet of Motion by Tomaž Šalamun

Stories that have a first scene, a second
scene, a first border, a second border, surrender like
a lump of meat. The brain slips and smacks its lips.
Radical light is always muscular,
it eliminates situations where you can look back.
And from its head leaps another material,
untouchable thoughts. And the swift chamois that
crouches mid-leap, ledges that
consume consciousness and stay
far behind, restraining their scent and
terror—musk. Is the chamois gone, where’s
the chamois? He stood a meter, like a notion
of whiteness. Don’t search here because
I’ve spoken. There’s consistently nothing here.