The Contact of Bodies, All the Way Down
The trains move only at midnight. The deer keep appearing out of timber. In all directions swelling: it is cosmic, in a sense. Coming slowly down the hillside, smoking dank and slamming the levee, the strange tongue turning the world full of birds in the deep breath. Why you so sad? Whittled out of a log. No one realized the sky is all she can offer. With no regard for moonlight, spilled downhill, everybody letting go: Pastor Lisa always lovely and blooming in the bookshelf; children on their way to high voltage tumbling; most men siphoning ghost from the river, You should keep it, sweetheart, like a netting overhead. The air is nothing but touching. Switchblade light in constant explosion. Think fields of deer people, hands everywhere reaching. Alessandro slipping on the texture of bread. A strange-boned hope, he called it a boat, Spook already underwater. An electric mess of every romance. You should grab your umbrella. The liquid sun flooding lemonade stands. What happens on the fringe: a living. In these days, gardens keep falling from the trees, acorns, etc. Do desperate things. Steal the earth. Punch the sun. Dressed all in yellow, keep coming for the birdseed fallen from the feeder. Think crush with eyes shut. Gore the night and leave the guts. Eventually it all spills over. Will not ever set, ever. Speaking of love, adrift in the kitchen, Isabella is a bell, a dark sky dreaming. Cling to her. Rise. Burn oneself up.