A tight box in the gut;
accordion of nerves
--arms, snapped shut.
Hinge, the relentless mechanism.
No softness, no tender existence
for the tongue to taste.
for all my strength, I should
hope it not be in vain
A windowless eye to black-out beautiful nothingness
[note the disappearance of a body
the mute God calls into soil]
Time & space cannot forget the brown root (hold me)
or conch (unheld) or in suspension, the ripe apple in September,
like dew, turns downward. Panic is produced
in the breath, born, expires as aftermath fires enraged,
in the throat
--------- tongue holds the presence of isolated spit
[she loves the pronunciation of quiver
formed in the slits her eyelids; staccatic dance]
…the awakening of a film occurs