MOVEMENT IN SIX GODS
ECHOES THE BOMB THAT HAS RISEN ABOVE ITS STORIES IN A FREQUENCY
THAT DISTENDS THE FLOWERS
Which resting tone copulates with sleep? And wading yet, we fanatically awaken,
perhaps knowing that we have eaten of the other’s mechanics; of the others’ sounds
in desperation – to feed in grace at the troughs, and, to heal. I look to you and in that service
duly ignore you – I do not remember if bathing was permitted at the base.
If swaying pulse stalks formed a rivulet in the second atmosphere.
What kind of terrain – thistle, sagebrush, limbs foaming, that is –
in its right hand, a ridged scalpel.
In its left, what exists, a peeled spiral.
As I enter its silence, this silence hooks into a code-scaled plot and tugs forward. It and I find sensate. Urging. As we pass silkily through the distance, an origin forms in the anterior. Feathery worms have floated by. Are we awash in ash, are we near the zone?
Lineages call out in the worms’ wakes:
Where is your clean dress?
Yes he is out getting a wire for the ceiling fan, now
He is behind the hot metallic mesh sipping the hot sugar syrup.
I slept with hundreds of families in the Somali air, the sea
freight’s top deck.
Is it in dress that belies recovery from a crisis?
No, that’s too much salt.
Beyond the loosened rubies – my sight for so long – there are hills, and, too, lime-greys
that furrow into duty as moderator for the holier things left in you. At the sine, as it quiets.
Carts appear in what was not mist yet is now assigned. A carriage and another and another, or perhaps the same, vessel begotten. We do not walk to them, nor do we climb inside;
alone, no horses.
Although we feel the idea, town, as a gravity in our bladders, we retain no motile knowledge. I feel a place where mystery and the inert form beyond, perhaps. Vandalized horses.
So we are going in while also waiting. Empty standing in the waiting faith.
While at a station the cities have permeated before.
The fog presents its faculty again, insinuating vision. Where the memory of you or I
exists, perhaps lingers in fact and is passively ignored. Though without heat or song or
unconscious action or recipe or child. The license that exiting-entrance is part catalogue.
More to the point, your perfume.
THIS BASE IS LIKE NO OTHER BASE
In a lichen affront to astringency, this base dissolves into its center, as a crater, offering
Its body to all shadow matter. The concrete screams its ancient anarchist shape, which eludes
me, the bystander, in all fashions of witness and conscientious attempts – I find myself
humming; hoping for communion, to ease into you, to locate the lost libretto.
In the bowl that rests abandoned. To surge directly toward the megacity by paean pat frustrates
the signifiers. And again, frustrations arise in the region (we read before appearing here) that turn
conversations to polish shame the same as any sky contracted by a missile.
And the wars cushion our subtext.
That built and rebuilt crater sustains filial semen, also myth size. It is a difficult kind of base: therein siblings coil around each other, thus waves tempt the moon who goes on without response.