.
Place: A tamp into indigo
What is place ?
A compassed crease, a crevassed vine ?
A zenith.
An annihilation.
A sycamore.
Where one was birthed,
then, not in infancy but as the petaling of a lilac.
Slowly.
An umbilical echoing, a shouldered thrum,
an apostrophe distinct,
a tracing,
a trill.
I live in all of the places I’ve ever met.
London. Buenos Aires.
Boston. Sao Paulo. NYC. Montevideo.
SF. Edinburgh.
LA.
It’s a mad dream adorned, a cloaked owning,
a design as absurd as tracing a thread through a garment.
It goes.
What it means to sleep with
every ligament gathered in and then to drop, unraveling,
wracked into a remembering,
a freckle, a blue.
An unplaced place,
then. Misplaced.
Displaced.
Replaced.
I understand the prefixes.
What remains is the
afterbirth: “place” buried beneath skulking or singing,
a rush of water or not at all,
a tamp into indigo,
a bird wrought into wings.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire