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Spring
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.
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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