Non-terrestrial window of illuminated dust, otherwise suspected of being prayer,
a motion mistaken technologically as retrievable
words,
misshapen, its foreign language arrives open syllable, an arresting rotunda in full
sunlight, herd of glimpses in the glass magnitude that meaning
shatters
now it is later by hours—forrestrial hours of who, what, where—each clandestine
discovery dirtying the opening which will not be fitted to any
frame,
particles of toxins floating their feather-ish allowance of shifting hues that blur
from one to the next afternoon indistinguishable between then and a
man
in his cowboy hat says it’s vomit, though most people step into
anyway, as opposed to ‘into it anyway’, and go on with
language,
hiding sometimes an entire night from its inquisitions, awakened in the citrus morning
to motes of floating trash, stray gutter jive, and its reciprocal
‘pollution,’
etymologically a desecration of the holy place with urine, feces—but online as
awareness endlessly renewable and too late for any crisis it could
subvert
with fine particles from the deep well of incidental, yet still lovingly chiseled details
spilling outward from a space where customers are
alternative
to everyone being wrong, to anyone ever actually being served, at the bank or ticket
counter or church where long-consonant divinities crooning dawn will mix with a
strain
of grinding metal, otherwise recognizable as the yes, that is my name, corroded faith,
the surface life of one woman so embrittled, her alloy finally
cracks,
spewing venal sins, hoards of saints, Midwest Monsanto corn crawling out from its
shriveled shape, sharp-taloned vulture-beaked future
projections
caged together as if they could be taught to warble in unison, yes, that is my
fingernail down the chalkboard, gramophone needle
scratch.
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