I call the main body, marker: a standing as if
in stead of. Or else a thing stooped down upon, and snapped. From branch I call
the main body, bramble: crescive glow from a crusted switchbox. On and off until a kind
of curfew comes. I call the main body, espoused. Line of symmetry inside, trench between
two lungs for the twoness of, the two-timedness of breathing. By oxygen-drawn sheerness
into red I call the branches to describe themselves…
Looking quietly at a trumpet, its flared bell, its blackness encompassed by brass I said
at a black fruit in seas of prickers I said wait. A body is mainly its branches
branca claw paw hand its tender
and untender branches.
A wealthy sound in velvet niches, silver bedded with silver. Draw the curtains
for candescence, candlestubs in silver antlers. The sun coughs down
auroras, illumines branches of
extinction. Beneath the tree a childhood coffer, a peony and
an acorn smell.
“Arethusa” first appeared in Fourteen Hills