these our sacred storms:
within this eternity, sky sits bluing its quiet madness its effigy of starlight
& gaseous suffocation yes as if it had anything
to question in the first place: what who when & always
when when the wind in its bludgery— when the bird nicking
its wing along the ridge— when the pretty feet, longtoed & trembling— — consider the body in its tendrillings consider what fractures
when nerves twist off their bonemounts & how it’s not that the snail
abandoned itself it’s just that its shell is still splaying on the rock where it used to sit under the same starfucked sky the rest of us gaze at & see
the deepening dendrites here the rootclenchings under the terroir
see the expanses of what’s left behind when no one’s looking the limitation of
limbs & their reaching raw & unraveled see the longlegs in its net the raspberry broken off its branch & dangling & see
nothing at all: the what the what not, what the legs can’t or
aren’t or the pulse that pins the legs together dissipating under
absence this collaborative burning just a glint of the body’s frequency
a tremor a tendril a little slip of blue
left to scratch the dry air to fill it with its gorgeous seething trespasses
