from Black Swan Theory

by Kyle Marbut


What I saw from my bed of Nights.  Appearance and disappearance as planetary behavior.  One place in deep naught can be another.  Second earth in the sky, flickering. Second self, looking down.Who went  down  the  hill and how.  Not  falling  but  lapsing. Never  touching  the slope. The deer, without shadows, their antlers ever  in  velvet.  And after, another gift.  I  can't  keep accepting boxes of dawn from the window. What I shattered to no avail. Featherweight wrought to the light. Billion-pound stare bearing  down from the sky. A  sense that every roof is slowly caving in.An acceptable reality, one in which the stars come down to hide beneath our tongues. To know there are others where the light doesn’t spill from our mouths is enough. Here, dogma of prisms wringing spectrums from our pale-lit breaths. I taste only clarity, chilled. Flat against the windowpane, lapping at the moon. What’s at stake in being or not. Indelicacy or, just shy of eden, a state of want. Knowing too much to know the self from the night.I knew  enough  to make  a blade  of the light.  Moonbeams  on fresh  snow   stretched  the  blue   hour  through  midnight.  Our minor gods in  silhouette,  framed in white,  stooped and  eating fallen  sky. The grass, licked  clean. How I wanted to  believe an early spring.  Yes, I made a blade from the light, pricked  myself on what slanted through unseamed  clouds into the center of an eye I opened twice.Your déjà vu is not my problem.  This an opening a god could slip through.  A lack of breath. Nothing is that cosmic.  Whatever you think I’m capable of, divide it by light.I have a box in which I shut my eyes. An idea of stars I had while slipping from my skin, plurally. Splayed on a memory foam altar, trading hours for insight, skin peeled back to a nameless deep. How I came to understand spring: seriocosmic verdure in absence of want, a wound swallowing a sword. The millionth tomorrow no birthright but a promise nonetheless. I asked for reality and was asked for nothing in return.Ghost weight, hypothetical moons orbit at the edge of our gravity. Thousands, hardly lucent, rising behind those clouds. At dusk I will think of you. Helical, diaphanous, losing hold of starbabble. Wrathful hour we spent, those coins of chipped ice. Set the night on our dead tongues. Fling me out to perihelion. Reel me back along the spool of a year. Night is not a color, light is not a crown. As if I could ever tell a truth. Without without.Pricked my finger on a sundial and fell through a few thousand days.  I lied like any other mirror.   Birdless, birdless, I never ask why.  If I am innocent, punish me anyway.      Language, quantum in the body by which I mean the mind.  Hoarded stemless birdbaths, altars of reflected sky, mosquito larvae.  I needed an other for this to be.  I love the world until it’s real.



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