411 Readings | 3 Ratings

Artificial Day

The animal opens, its scourge the fountain’s plume. Heartache, the translucent bell, tomorrow. Tomorrow bone will speak to bone in the arm. Held closely, held and mollified. The canker livid and wandering. A holiday for criminals, a boot and a plough. The stars be hid, the stars like snow - placid and redolent as bedrock. There’s an enemy. I am a plover, a missive, a white shutter, a stone wall. All the children bleed. Their mouths are juicy wolves. A fragrant and enveloping mist, a paucity of daylight. Crimes and grapes on the table. The open book smokes. The windows smoke and thin, the air astringent as orange rinds. That’s what my brother finds by the woodpile. He throws the fish back, too late, it falls to the ocean floor like a villanelle, like calligraphy written in lemon juice. The fine delicate chin of a young woman appears briefly in the deep. An oarfish, an awe, a second look at the apple tree. She has a throat. Ripples of fear, softly electric, a lamp about to crumple. Built-in obsolescence: is compliant, and generous, a grass in the mouth of a cave, a thrush.

Posted 03/16/14
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