Paint the seawalls. Drink the inner eye. Share the landscape with gold and silver satellites we absorb through our skin. Live for years under the waterfalls lined with silk. Drink the thunder. Cover passageways with nutritive properties. Complete zero gravity and sing into the chemical sea. A delay, even were shadows and voyage sculptures damaged in transit. It was a monarchical concept, the war. And we didn’t correspond much going from abscess to abscess. You never touched a dollar! She didn’t have the money For buying pictures. One doesn't know how one does it. I bathe in the bikini of otherworldliness. I warm myself in the robe of tribalism. I feast at the olive of glassiness and pick a twig of lightning searching the valley for seeds. I find the agedness of cement in the potsherds of white fringetree, and I breathe two spindles of the chrysalis. I rest. The cactus flowers briefly. We call our children after its chicory scent. On the eve of crystalline insects and the eve of crystalline air, it recreates itself by dreaming. A syntax splits itself in a winterworn zenith; it's seen in the eye of the astrologer and felt in the scythe of the sculptor of fog. It glows in paneled stone a wayward halogen vying for ascent, circling numeric systems of overstuffed ecology. You know this story. It's all retold in the myth of the saline vessels that sailed the mineral swaps: They gifted man his language; they taught him how to shape air with his mouth; how to stress sounds with his lips; how to sing the names of his earth. Now, they speak only if seen in the quiet luminescence of shifting night. They catch wind of inlaid glass. They weep at the interstate. |
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