Let them come for what’s left: a chorus of bone, river and soot. Worthy enough. Holy enough. Like all the others, singular—or not. Wanting only for your name to blue my lips and call it miracle. Our love double-knotted, saddle-stitched held the world together. Until it didn’t— all the words you placed in me flushed and faltered. From memory, I recited their worn prattle—cut them clean with my bite. The jungle we made in blame grew and grew, fed on our melancholy. Not even the birds knew to change their songs.
—or rhubarb? Scant difference between some flowers and the heads of cauliflowers the fingers get herbaceous rubbing against. If I could get ecstatic I would by the low soft weeds, the hard oracular orifices of tree bark. Some landscapes under duress predict this atonal sky. Scant difference between flowers. The canned cool metal slightly curves, of trash receptacles, meadow interregna, strange fanciful flights, toward toward. Where the rhubarb field is not so bright red as you would think, not so precise or fulminating, too much green sticks out, stems and leaves like a fuzz of voices, watery incarnadine, here where the sounds so simplify the milieu into that wetness there, here I stumble to approximate the durations of others, to appear of the same time as though of space, I worry terribly, I hesitate, I lose my measure, a juice trickles down my side, रस ರಸ. Like I get I’m out of tune.