RON SILLIMAN's most recent collections are R (Drogue Press) and MultiPlex (Wild Honey Press). His poems have recently appeared in CrossConnect and Quarry West #34, which is a special 200-page issue devoted to his work. He lives in Paoli, Pennsylvania. THAT WHICH IS MERELY ETERNAL SOON ROTS Sun in the fog in the trees, birds skittering in the first light. Shadow of my hand over the word as I write. The master of rooms constructs a cage within a castle within which a canary who whistles might sing.         We give birth to death itself and then live forever in fear and awe which is the same thing, and call it the simplest of names or forget its name altogether, it is so omnipresent.         Time waits not for the screen to redraw, for me to withdraw, that drawl that extends the o in no when a daughter leaves a daughter Old Irish alibi Lament The market seen as a game of chess a million colors across a vast board each in play simultaneously is not the individual's experience of an acquisition, is not what, standing by the copier window causes one to pause.             Beyond the parking lot so full the brown UPS van is forced to pull up on the grass, the vast park just past the last rooftops lone white church spire rising thru the trees two plumes of white steam rise high from the cooling towers of Limerick Thin blue linebreak merely an echo one half hears ringing receding the instant one wakes back into the dream - what was that? a rock one finds shining on the beach that when dry loses its luster only to carry forward a new, different fascination too difficult to name - what is that? Tricks, to thread words heard in the head forward between lines, thru the morning of snow falling indoor winter light Small potato eyes sink into the snowman's face leaning in the gradual warmth over the fence the train roars south electrified cold mechanical bullet Quilt as a theory of form Full moon never free of poplar branches night forest blue with snow house seen as a lantern, muted throws long shadows Long clear whistle followed by a trill - which bird wakes to greet the rainy dawn tho the adjectival itself forms a cliché to display the familiar / familial all of civilization sucked into the verb "greet" In Avignon I found the French easier because cast in a Spanish slant The bird as an object in the tree as an object sings without intention in the meaningless woods