edges crossing over her
intonation
I have always known that it must be poetry for all writings confronts with a “why are you writing this”
and only poetry poses it as a real question.
precarious divisions
name/sun:
always on the way to the nocturnal side however subtle
even in the golden most day of a day
edges rising as silver linings
around time
not spaces
a constant search for something you can crossover and be entirely someone else
funny that she has been given the name after
“the tender warmth of a spring sun”
thawing
words as relics
does not stand still in their shape or intention
like la fève
or pie birds
murmuration when you miss
your eye fixed
on a constant escape
sun/time:
the heat
kissing your back
was a lightening
not a thunder
any borders are one mobile reality
which you could never looking into
until the shadow of your body
becomes an interjection
to the line
of speech
said the sun
later known as a spelling
epistemological
of time.
time/speed:
the best way to contemplate, or to get into the way of time is to sit on the inside of a shadow and wait
for the sun to run into you, then leave you alone again
so you would notice a concrete speed of your thoughts
so you could become a placeholder
in hindsight, also a bouquet of flowers in hands
next to the memory of that time
thus doubling it.
speed = space/time
so your thoughts gain physicality.
like a shiny piece of honeyed toast
ready to make a sound
or decay
edges
crossing
over you
as you begin to resemble yourself in a memory you look into your own face and for the first time noticing your lashes no longer opaque
waving both a hello and goodbye every frame and you feel so much lighter so much less agency in terms of the distance between action
and its effect in your hand in reality and now here is where poetry seeps in like water
(sip)
time=passive space
or everything
but this allusive periphery
from which radiates the stars both within and without
(astrologically, time IS the position of stellar bodies and our constant realignment with them thus time is space mapped onto space. I was short of sleep for two weeks so my room is shrinking. I could not stop its becoming smaller until I peeled an orange whose vibrant scent reminds me harvest and I had to get out of bed and shut the curtains.)
me, a landscape
from the view point
of a dandelion
set free parsing
time
on the wind
all numbers in a history already engraved.
(a brilliant husky slowly crossed over me as if an alternative shade of grass)
watching someone leave
on a merry-go-round
and return
the appearance of a one-way street
when you look to its front and back
speed/exit:
maybe that is why I keep feeling the urge to move, faster with my limbs or language:
so I could catch my soul
the edge
constantly sailing away:
exist=constant exiting
I think of that time when I was doing a lot of playwriting and could not help misspelling exit for exist and now the scene is turning lucid.
(The sun sliding still west)
That it was more of an oracle than a mistake.