Open window light while you circumscribe my unused habits like thin shadows in diffuse patterns past the dark cherry shelves. Undulating, un-modulated speech like the window light and you – gently curving space in the fabric of this house.
The last century stands exposed in a garden, full of its unrequited promises – unripe cucumber – shadow berries – sometimes I want to explode a phrase into whatever constitutes “nothing” in a poem and I hear phantom drumbeats in the hollow of my ear.
We spread gentle epoxy on our tongues. Earth meets nothing – our feet glide. In response I levitate strange things across our field of vision.
A child’s hands were crippled by the vindictive hammer. Each day I strike the fantastic and strike a small silver gong and the sound ripples out among the maples and the men dig furrows in the lawn and the geese transform into pure air.
I am a city, here, among the silver strands of hanging fog, abrupt against the edge of blanket sky.
The same things are wrapped around my eyes; a powder drifts down and hardens the horizon. A scar becomes a wound – begins to bleed. The sky above is empty. The sky above is empty. An engine in the distance whirs.
Celebrant eyes – the flooded hourglass. The child unlearns his mother’s voice and climbs: I chase him, reckless, without a guide, without a basket of my own. The child spreads his hands toward me. He opens firm, pink palms – they look incapable of murder.
Any place where you pursue history like a prefix, sending the new material down through the centuries. Page by seamless page, flat becomes what north never failed to be, and the new monologue of separate stars delineated by our growing astonishment sleep boldly in the isolated pockets of the sky.
What I never understood before this moment: you are not opaque. A sheaf of light scalpels through you, exposes your organs – brushes aside mere skin and bone to flush the hyperactive proteins, excising every piece of failing cartilage.
I cannot see the sky tonight. I cannot see it, cannot see every car on every freeway. The sky is a repository of my energetic self – it draws a part of every new and vacant pearl, luminescent like a ball of purest plasma.
The little boy stands naked. He stands alone, is freezing. He moves away from windows with their drafty underbellies, closer, with each shivering step. The boy begins to thaw. He dresses himself in the finest woven fabrics. He is alone and wears no crown.
The evening glows like a perched parrot. It flies with silver silent wings and dips its ochre beak into my hand and the world is bold and new and filled with liquid radiance. A flight of small and indolent birds fly through the summer. Days become the smallest measurements.