the Mis translated, wing
“este quem existe”-Lispector
Imagine midway in the morning you are dead
the sky pulled down like A-Ma’s hair in the rain it seems
I am trying to tell you a dream of trees this nation
of bamboo held bones-together the tension of language’s phylum
your breath was frail water the great elixir
they and you had been another other
another page torn away, another poem scrapped, another life erased in the space between the white void and the black stars
crackling, that day we forgot when in the rain hearts scraped
we did not unlock the world unstitched notes nearly dying
does this whom exist1
the choir of silence between the shuttering vowel and its consonant partner
the short, soft shaking
the mis translated ache, LaYa the spider’s wing
in a sound plosive
in a word onging
in a meter eulogizing the rise
in a phrase absent grows the wearied thought
in a story this who weevil when wobbled
in a poem bodies slowly sweeten, away
the wracking world
run the light upon your everlasting stretching
in the dark recesses of bramble and cave, light wriggles along gossamer dust
radiance allows the sudden moon to thread a silver'd path, outward the years slip like breath along the edges of the continent’s skin, an abundance and a reckoning as the firmament spreads wide, the heart thigh-high, loss a gap-toothed space above that ran down the dark’s spine and unending
pitch and pale all the pails of sound and lyric which twined and coursed through each of you comes forth
small accumulations and then, what
recall how you scattered the sky into parts of the field as a child
what happens to the stars when they die along the spring of your lives
bodies slowly glisten
along the stretch of our conniving lies, stories slowly listen
the hurt of the lonely rhyme
the land’s seaside links slowly gobble up and meaning slings away and our hearts go missing
bodies slowly sweeten, away
the trembling trembling world
for Holly Lee and Tammy Ho
