Impure Ballade: Switzerland, Moon, Lecture

For this country I am too ferine:
The snapback heartattack vacuum pack
Void, where earth ends and space lines
Its intarsia atmospherics, the russet backs
Of the Münster, stepped down to the Rhine.
Absence is a type of cleanliness;
My clip-clop boots rub the city’s spline,
A sarabande, a presence, a confession.

For here I am the moon, spun round lupine,
Pill-pop cratered-up blister-pack,
In crashing relation with the tides,
Grey, luminous, all crosstracked.
They fascinate you, my impurities,
My tendril tenders acanthine:
A sarabande, a presence, a confession.

For in the Kunstmuseum, the turpentine
Smell of the Bruegel, a blue-green track,
A ship, a hairline, perched on the rind
Of the turning earth, wind-wise tacked,
This border, cusped, an intimacy.
Each white wisp of brush enshrines
A sarabande, a presence, a confession.

I stand at the lectern, speak in wild signs—
Of my unkempt star, the void takes no possession.
Pinnate, I am twisting, briared eglantine;
A sarabande, a presence, a confession.