colors of the undwelt, the violence of
letting go--read in the expression of flesh.
hidden away in garbage, forests, coffins--
right now.
as on this day dying so young.
the mourned as the mourner bore away--
to gradually put to light that moment again.
it feels as though spirits deplete nothingness to get at a moment that's
its own.
their powers of observation seem to command: look still, look still, look still!
if direction is traffic's singular will, &
motion is salvation--imagine if motion stops short of what has come to pass.
it would be as if spirits realized they were
breathing for no reason.
that there are far more delicate balances
held therein.
it's as if darkness becomes more of light than ever, & light becomes more of darkness than ever.
right when polarities are most distinct, they assume the other polarity through
relinquishment.

your mustache became your

mouth's permanent hibernation--

"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"

no more.

your brows fell down on your

cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting

to get a last good look at you.

as if a cradle's starry

revolutions counted you out.

your snowed in smock neatly tucked

in for posterity.

your sister's doting hands trailing off.

to where that mare waited in a flurry of

blows--so it could saddle your mind.

the ground palms darknesses & pours

it over my head--it shouldn't be so

easy to forget a name.

think an impromptu baptism with

shades on.

it's how one sticks out to another

world--a monolithic displacement,

undeniably there.

always prepared to say a few words

about the body's warmth...

followed by: I wanted you to have this.

he knows it as something emotions

are herded into--like savage first contact.

that blurs to protect identity, blocky

skintones discombobulating

b movie shame.

highjacked without being plastered

everywhere.

or the naked motions that play catch-up

behind glass shower doors, as if wrestling

with a dagger.

not necessarily protecting identity--but

what comes after it.

much like initial snow that stalls right

above the ground--for an entire winter.

to be walked through with the fragile

care of floating styrofoam.

so gravity can anticipate itself & maybe

understand.

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?

the fog tweaked its percentage of

visibility--as if to pull London across the

pond.

on my left periphery, headlights turned

black rails into a sudden downpour of

spaced glints.

elegance without inclemency.

further down, the upper floors of a lofty

apartment building wore the unreadable

glow of a mothership.

its discursive headway of private agendas

contra-fog.

then fog contra-smokescreen, carpe

noctem coordinates of drones following

suit.

as if high strangeness stooping to our

level--the field's too unfied for that.

nonentity's curvature won't

return from its hermetic seal.

moved to envelopement.

as someone turning a corner,

that you'll never see again.

its depth & volume wound all the

way (an unknown).

despite this side of its curvature

making it so (a known).

something among billions of six

senses coincide to keep it both

sealed & unsealed.

curvature canceled out--shelved.