He still exists as flesh; it's the idea that's dissipated—: husband :—what was he? But a word I loved? There is no panacea for missing syllables: his body: we all know what matter's mostly made of—: space obtains—: One day I realized I beleive—: the space in everything is God: that force of present absence: pen: expanse: I grieve— ] old fashioned: distance: squinting it into view [ between body and name—in here!—I'm loose as love is—: nebulous—: what good this pointillism—: our eyes won't do—: Sometimes the absences in us seem so profuse, I wonder we don't pass through wood.
Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon
Transit of Venus
The actors mill about the party saying rhubarb because other words do not sound like conversation. In the kitchen, always, one who's just discovered beauty, his mouth full of whiskey and strawberries. He practices the texture of her hair with his tongue; in her, five billion electrons pop their atoms. Rhubarb in electromagnetic loops, rhubarb, rhubarb, the din increases.