from For the Fighting Spirit of the Walnut
34
A shipwrecked light. Opening your cracked lips still wider, you call in the rusty-haired ocean. Even as you ride into the city of devotion composed only of ephemera and horizon, on the breath of a black horse in January. Your heart crushed upon the seven seas, space torn apart at once as the fabric of water. A person now is a breach of the moment — lacking that which responds, is nothing but a yonder shadow. But look — O twisted edge of the shipwrecked light. This sight of the tendons in your heel, with grains of sand on them, beginning to withstand the pale constriction of your leaps. Amidst the rising scent of grass, of thrashing, of disdain.
43
The spider is genius. The celerity which moves — leading the air mass — the atmosphere level that falls higher than the clouds connecting the seasons. The spider is genius. The brilliance descending omnidirectionally is not a gravity-evading parachute, but striates the entire sky, guiding drops of light towards the ground. And it just lowers itself down along the way. How can there be such transparent bones — bones that flood over, even as they break. And plus he is a seed. With endurance and imagination as nourishment, the scheme is rather null. Sorcery is rather null. A light-handed evil which admits no glory, not even your own. The spider is simply genius.
100
Summoning up my last bit of energy, I shall give a gift to your pale doorway. So that it might become your first bit of food before heading over to the other eye. Whirling tides that are sealed in. And the sun with new bandages. Drupes with wisdom.
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