But if the grove of candlewood emits the cadence of a small plane overhead and the frozen summerpool, then this sopped-over vitality
becomes a mode of moving through wind through what renders us as near, the icon useful in its gold and the how of its eyes. The image was painted centuries before you were born
and so this recognition, but those eyes are not to be argued with. More importantly, the sound of air forced through a pinhole.
And so gone to camera, gone to clutching in the gallery because what had been said had been recorded and then
inlaid in the scene. Our lips not matching the dialogue as the improbable rises behind. As the sky uplifts in sound composing as fallen from the nest I had never felt so.
What the silent said within that corner of warm and such companionship. The city left behind in alternate memory
blistered from the outside. You are another character now that your defenses have been relinquished or at least this is what we call a softening of light
and the lines around my eyes show less, or at least I feel them less, am less, myself, of an etching. These are simple things dampered and bodying.
What are we but prediction based on pinks ringing out nightfall as speech settles in the pit of my throat. Cloves seep into your eyes
at last the look fixed across centuries but this still doesn’t warrant such rivers tendered as storm. As listening into the recording,
a texture of yolk emitted to sky but of course with dappling with what the linden says.
And the words carve this, anchoring it in as in a boat, as in a coursing meant unto the calf’s down, the blood in the dust and no longer. There is no melancholy like that built out of heat and rusted metal, what spills creating gesture, my hand damp and limp and I am afraid there was nothing much else to have been spoken.