ボケット: Boketto
(letters to a wife, found in a box)
"He knew nothing to do but inhabit the paradoxes."--William McIlvanney
Letter 6
Dear Beloved,
Body as language and the continent of wielded words surrounding as left a divestiture
Worlds alight here along the cars of st claire
My looming along the spine of Formosa
Call the rhyme, clack the crack in the tea cup
Teetering
This is the season when folk weight themselves down by the gifts they carry and i watch them as i gambol through the rain and think thus:
The tug inside my fame and carriage you created in a dollar-less giving, without expending accounts, and which does not weigh down but bullys gravity and i am aflight from that.
Bagless, i am electric from that gift that marks my walking, invisibly.
To find purchase in the weight of free arms because you gifted me with wonder that cannot be purchased nor pitched into a clever, seasonal shopping bag
Carapace and Movement
Suddenly (once i scribbled long ago),
winter (now the autumnal light) broke through my window
(now along the fickle length of my arm)
as if a phone call in the den of night
and pried my bones (android digits) from the fat caging my heart,
and you were there:
sea and voice and suddenly
11 time zones away, you awoke me.
Your voice, all Nemo and bubble and 10,000 leagues afar,
is enough to cadence this:
the stones may gravel and the machinations of our jobs (stilted maths)
may fuck us,
but we shall not resist the simpler thing:
You carry a bucket of light in your voice and the sea grows wide from
testament.
The grist of the moving of place, of boxes felled by time and imprint,
the rattle in the carrying that reminds, the upland, the stains,
the spider newspaper printing along the corner of a poem once thought sent:
the webs in the corner, the wash and the light at the end of the throat.
This call our Archimedes, that shall be our Orion.
And there is no app that can replace that, no code, no nimble mind,
the 1's and 0's nothing compared with the shape of voice cascading,
the tiger run around the tree, and we shaped into butter.
You shaped me into life, blooming.
Hurting,
bobo
