The phases that keep the eye open, curl away into depthness,
then burn so crisply into light. These dreams that wrack
all the memories and pull them from out the shoulder blades
leave all the letters of wingdrums bereft and spilt to burble and bade.
In crunch of teeth, and bending of whistle golden wheat, spirit
serpentines throughout the wind and meets me with bare feet.
Body feels like unbody, and soul feels like yoke unbroke.
Weevils take all the flesh, and then crown together so to rest.
Palms bare plum flowers so to grow the mane, and throat
flares infected red so the growl does rupture right. Imbued into
every wrinkle, rivers riot. Imbedded into every crease, mites
dine on it. Lungs drink in the dinner of the uproarious lion night.
Nothing touches; atoms never know embrace. But each being
crouches down so to touch one another with a face to a face to face.
Arms, wait. Music boxes fall inward, tumbling all the strings.
Gears keep moving, not knowing they are plucking away at nothing.
Sink is liken to rise like death is liken to life. Bowing to
backbending; stealing quick into the other and osculating.
Mouth and mouth know all the hollows, and all the ribbons between.
Blows of breath make all the lands quiver, bursting them at the stitches.
I am dumping into a wayward sea, that is speaking as though a tree.
It says, “I started small, and I can die, and I’ll never know what
it is not to be me.” So I wade ever the deeper, silent and slim like a reed.
Warding off all the waters, darkening, so to understand what it is, to see.
A. Marie Kaluza blogs at The Larkspur Horne