The nightsky holds me in its mouth
like a Kingfisher gripping a minnow.
I pull down the stars & staple them
to these frigid walls. I will plant
every one of these sparkling diamonds,
like a milky-blurred background
in a black-and-white film, into
the overpopulated strangeness of
autumn-long quieted roots. My hands
over the land like tentacles
swipes over the land of the season
as if I were Clockwork flying out of
an old diagram, ink-blotted Ciurlionis-like
greased color; an overloaded treasury of
conjoined voices, & the Truth is this:
I view myself as a young boy
within a souvenir snowglobe;
the needlework as solid as premature speech.
Childhood is a fishbone
in the mouth of an animal.
I have abruptly left myself
in my own mind, stumbling in place as if
I have something to say, but unable to be
as urgent as other poets.
I spew out certain memories, their
delicacies invigorating interpretation.
A memory is a peephole, a visible tongue
"airing out" seeking to land someplace
the way that a bat inhabits a geography
by sense of Feel. I recall as a child, with
a sense of Feel, the out-of-body-experience
I had, as I hovered outside of my bedroom window
& then brought back into "place"--
a barely-visible individual standing
at the foot of my bed glaring at me
the way that a "familiar spirit" may create
disruptions & bountiful messes within
the orbiting realms of a home.
My meditative spaces need no redemption;
wings of every meaning flicker about,
sonicspeech at the tip of my tongue
aching for the "second before," the way
that a tear seemingly moves in slow motion
like resin seeping from a Pine, like I
thinking of you in this utter nighttime silence.
