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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.

http://mythologyofblue.tumblr.com/

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