Let’s put the hinge in thing. It’ll take some doing
but once it’s in all the world will begin, back and forth, to swing,
swing out onto the fluid and the blurred. It’ll need/require/necessitate some being
but once it’s been, all the world will take wing,
to alight, midflight, anothered.
Birds and stars turn into stars and birds—
flocks constellating, stars in chevrons overhead, starcalls overheard.
Field stars hop around. Birds fade/dim at dawn over fields.
Starlight smears a cracked windshield.
A bird to find your way by, fixed. A star wheeling
aloft. Stars on a wire. Wishing on the first bird, a thing being, as we speak, fulfilled.
The elevator and the waterfall slide
past each other through the world and into place, up the shaft, down the side.
Let’s take the water to the top. Let us let it let us out on the top floor, let’s ride
the strata up and be awestruck at the sheer, the solid
drop. And when zigzag and undulation shift,
in the slippage between sea and cliff,
surf and crag, let’s hear beauty calling surface tension’s bluff.
Experiencing texture in and of flux,
let’s attend a fête where snacks and trinkets, buffet and display, start/begin to gel.
Silver platters circulate with raw pearls on the half-shell,
diamond chips and gold dip, (citrine squirted over) jumbo gem cocktail
(squirted with citrine), jewel skewers—cabochon kabobs with chunks of/achunk with fire opal
as the guests circulate dripping with triple strands of coral roe,
parsley(ed/-sprigged) tiara s, cherrystone cameoes—
clams attached to platinum clasps—bits of pimiento
through holes in the lobes, studded belt buckle of a softshell crab (faux).
Wedging the ginglymus into the rigid thing,
thrusting ginglymi upon things—resisting
is natural, bending gingerly. But once essence begins
to know range of motion, there’s no turning
back, only turning and turning each into (/)the other.
So aura becomes beam,beam aura,
until guards and guardians, angels and interro-
gators appear to us in altogether
altered/new/different lights—glare and glow,
focus and diffusion, laser and halo,
illumination’s source and course clear and unclear, shadow
and silhouette—gradation gaining the edge on edge. So
interior turns exterior, the furniture (geo-)phenomenon
(of geology). Let’s redo our home with the world—sofa and ottoman
a length of rock ledge and a boulder, tides/the tide rolling up and down
where once were/in place of windowblinds/shades—let’s roll around on
rugs of tan sand, send a runner of white sand
down the stairs, install wall-to-wall sand carpeting in russet and
rose, the colors of sunset over /upon dunes wind-tracked and land-
markless, the hues of pinpointing nowhere, of standing
still through the day surrounded by no sound but the animal cries
of wind. So in our bed of meadow, mattress of matted dried grasses
on soil box spring on bedrock frame, come sunrise,
lying ear to (your) chest, I am/let me be in for the daily/everyday surprise
of outside sounds coming from within you, bodily sounds
coming up through the window from our block/the street below, grinding, ground-
down sounds, stomachs/tummies rumbling past, (bull)dozers briefly drowning
out the neighborhood’s soft, steady pounding.
Little construction site, small(est) dilapidation. In you a fenced heart barks.
An engine starts up in you, off to work.
The occasional plane drone makes/follows an arc.
The chained heart baying near dawn, in the dark.
Soon the body and the soul will start to bleed
into each other like colors exceeding
the grasp of their (own) wavelengths, off on a hue spree.
The voice will run the spectrum, describing how it sees
the soul as the town cripple, not shuffling through the park
so much as getting caught in the scuffle
between his legs, while the look
on his face stays as sweet as a leaf, a little
detached from the petiole—as when a branch
stirs, leaves blink in the sunshine
like a glimpse of nocturnal fauna
hidden in selfsame/identical/indistinguishable flora, leaves blinking
in the breeze that blows that look across
his face, startling when the tree opens its windowblind
of branches, or at the freaks and flukes of birdcalls.
Or the soul is only one
among a hilltown’s crippled populace
whose tendons unravel in legs like runs
in stockings, legs like sheer pantyhose
with no legs in them—all the tender pendulums
of limbs aswing, limbs like emblems
resembling/of wings flapping on flapping flags,
limbs like needles climbing seismic registers,
indicative of (subsurface/sudden) activity,
legs caught in the trap their own knees spring,
twisting back to chew free, snapping at the knee—
the soul the body in the stairwell every step amounts to,
the body taking the stairs of its own making, flights of air—
the soul the body that is its own springboard into the whirlpool,
hurling itself off itself into the whorl, the loose end(s) of the loop—
turning the/its/a leap
into its/a plea, (the) movement letting out a whoop—
Come on in. The word for water is warm. TKTK
as though the relation of the body to the soul hinged
upon the answer to the question: In the sentence
injure tinge spring fringe linger impinge
“Upon reaching the site, we found the ruins in ruins,”
what are we to picture,
rubble doubling or the resurrection of the/a temple therefrom?
When the reversible and the irreversible finally blur
it will be for good.