my poised mother stances to behead the onion— begins a murderous sound brigade of simmer in the home. the fizz starts to assault the restive pulse of woodwork, the red plush of air in the heart of cauldron — little child you are no longer a boy; the furniture is arranged and the nail is hammered to its deep oceania.
the feeling of stillness, a saboteur.
a stasis of dark flounders a steady lark. headiness of scent peregrinating toughness, the countenance of walls. i am always the egg smashed opened, cracked, bleeding clear, yolk gallops, slides like thigh upon fault of pond. i begin to understand the curious case of feral, the benign death of rodent; the cupboard infested with species running around China plates.
the quietude starts to confront the little house of moon — the silvery mane of water trapped in the Earth, listen to its bell; the shiftless rotund of its footfall, these are the hooves of it, rummaging past the minutes like a horse.