the
dungeon was haven across wires bled out unto resurrection. the battle was
father’s the war was mother’s the aftermath was progeny. eating marshweed
societal swamp water at each turn having to negotiate – mother’s hand, or
granny’s dementia, or a building of ants. I often wonder about our systems –
the way we seem displeased, as it must be vetted, it must be of deeper concern.
our souls fraught by bees our minds wrestling slugs our piano placed amid a
forest. it was easy to dismiss until it was necessary or it kept gnawing at our
subliminal. a hydrant for whispers or water flushing sewers or rain probing
atmosphere. a woman was mad, I’d done something wrong, she wasn’t about to tell
me. I knitted for hours some sentence in intuition, I unknitted it in her
voice. must sun rise in miseries much darkness in blackdamp much pluvial
conversation when days are unpaved. but areas are puddles or sediments, for the
estuary is flooded. by fire to smelt me by iniquity to bless me so many miles
separating our understanding. a lake amid our flame born so late and carried,
made muddy, and baptized so early. as what was given, its taste in our fens our
parachute opening too soon. a manmade monster a feeling felt frantic or a petal
palatial in pride. so straightly crooked so much an absurd specimen after
something – it isn’t coming – we started digging holes for trees. a sink sat
aside a street, a gate spoke to fate, a man unfaced an apparition. so distant
in its closeness so up to feel so low or so proudly disappointed.
