Floral: the gentle, murmuring field. Like the faint ocean swells tuned to the infant-glossed octaves that welcomed plasmodia, then notochord, then sinuses. Amidst the caustic blunted grid declared by other neighbours, what of this generosity, this hovered breath of nurture? Calm. Rising. Calming, rising, rising.
Coils merging from sleep. Fine thinking. Surges, I follow nested threads. Predisposed: like the twigs that bifurcate from branches that gather from trunks from the thundering tap-rooted mass-bound ground, lacing across the darkened sky there as I look. Individuals.
Smallpox-laden four-point pure wool Bay spreads, laden with warmth. Why, in each pore, is there a clutching stricture? Why, in each jelly-warm octopus’ kiss, blade? Or then why simmering warm in the abject insect jaw- why even bother with blood with touch with gentle kind gestures if a viral pinchclamp would do it?
Strewn across the scrub-trash plain revealed by spring melt are a myriad of puddles, settled into sodden ground, collectors: oil-rainbow glazed, ash-sediment base thickened, last season’s mold sloughing off partly submerged twigs and tendrils. Too diffuse to qualify as tension, but with enough insolent potency to cough up a rictus if the game called. The surface pit beneath each of my clavicles feels ready for that kind of duty, dull aches sprinkled with ready-to-convulse tendons. The lee of my elbow, inward, soft. Inside the knees, and beside the sinews flanking. And the little wells at the base of each pair of fingers. The deeper entry toward nerve-cluster between thumb and first digit at metatarsal. Ankles below the joint, sole high within the arch. Behind high in each thigh, close to the burly implants of sinew in femur. Throat, at the front base.
Fontanel obviously. Not to speak of the pool converging at the centre of our caged breast.
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Toward Brussells June 15, 2009
Streaking clusters arc across, stuttering their prescribed half-kilometer pulse along their vector, silently agreeing with a neighbour’s domain of a kilometer or so. The nap covers approximately, gradient stretching between flickering surface of Baltic sea and quilted Jutland shore. Free-soldier trenchant barges plough up the middle of the strait toward a port north of Aalborg. The drift coheres at landfall, resolving to corrugated cover and sheltered base.
Tended cells arrayed along tight-lipped seams, tidied by the tightening cluster of attention at water’s edge. But reaching inward, the cloud cover tightens its grain, first shifting to a dense stranded screen punctuated by fissures, then to wide banded rivers moving south-east, thrown into relief by the dawn light. As the spread thickens more, the distinction of the warp-oriented main vectors blurs, fusing into broad ribbons interspersed with valleys. Slight shivers appear in the perpendicular axis, an oscillation recapitulating the chop of the dispersed veil that preceded it now two hundred miles passed. Fusing again, toward an evenly spread delicately wrinkled miasma of swells. One hundred miles more, and strains shadow the surface, reaching south and then south-west, arcing across the bias in a shuddering series of braided cross-currents. The seams reach deeper and suddenly cleave the surface, sending wide fjord-furrows out in repeating chatters of cross and parry. The breaks extend, each arcing back toward itself in a lagoon-form broken by its opposite-arcing coursing reaching out and slowly dying in intensity, a string of vortices shed from the first cleavage.
A new shore: a vast floating edge ends, revealing the preceding world as a tableau. Trailing carcasses of thinning haze stream downward and stretch off into entrails. A plunging gorge, edged by lipping swells that converge and marrow to heal the foot, bleeding into lower depths. This catastrophe is quickly cloaked by upper haze, engulfing me. Except for a string of plumes that orient me to wide left, the field shifts to a single, hovering sphere reaching the pure horizon, sky against stratosphere, pronouncing the lensing flux of light at its furthest spherical tangent. Almost nothing, a suspension that plays me by deflection: wait, retinal trenchants, there is little here. That parsimony is stretched toward primal vagueness. Not lost, but delayed past recognition. No event.
A slight descent, tuning suspension: the horizon eludes even also, exchanged for thinly-spread cirrus and stretched-tissue whispers flickering above, thickened. Soot, evenly dispersed and sanitized into subterfugual milk-mist. Corrosion cloaked as leavened temperance: the quietest death.
I know nothing.
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