Eschaton, book of sand
“who
is invisible enough
to see you”― Celan
i
we slide into the throat of Winter, brightly bit and together
a bucket tinned by nine years, swallowing and roaming
fallen madly into incandescence stone-tucked and hard, just discovered
the world two days ago, absent and together.
ii
bright as that first day baying in May upon a book of sand.
iii
the quotidian ghosts of the everyday poem, skyed and branching upon the rubbled and the hill.
iv
love's labour more rich than our labouring tongue or the luggage of language
the labour of our longing.
v
the sky lit as sea beneath our twinning lives.
vi
we lived in neighborhoods damp with voices.
vii
the lives ablossom, the color of apples long-ripe in a brown bowl.
viii
then one day you awake and swing between a nest of voices and trees
articulations gnarl beneath the licking sky,
dropped light angular between the snow
dropped white between the falling bronchial words
dropped red into your life and home,
decorating all that lit up,
chalky breath and arteries of light
roaming time for homing home
this life, vaping upon white, snow scribbled finger,
this air: the algebra from me to you.
ix
the sky lit as sea beneath our twinning lives, regained.
x
we live in neighborhoods damp with voices
lives ablossom the color of apples long-ripe in a brown bowl
then one day you awake and swing between a nest of voices and branch of gestures, touching
as we lived to tell the stories we were not expected to survive.
