What is known of
it –
almond husks split
open and emptied
on the cool loam
beneath the almond tree.
Some form of
life has done
this. Are these the kernels
feeding the larvae
of the Tiger Moths
who proliferate so
secretly
then carpet the
brightest windows
and choke and burn in the sensors?
In Vodoun
when God comes
to animate the
body, it is called white
darkness.
I know of a man’s
hands,
knuckles felted
with black hair
breaking the wings
of a crow
but it is not he
who does the breaking
or the drinking of
the crow’s blood – rather
what has become
him (the sacred
parasitism). His tongue
laps every sweet
dew ball from a
bluegrass field
like a sick
animal, canines excruciating into fangs
faster than bamboo
grows,
eyes multiplied by
four and gone red.
In the Maze
my brothers
dart to avoid my
body, its marked
whiteness.
There the parents
of a child
floating in the
telic centre – this maze
centre is a
perfectly round pool of water –
an unreachable
purpose
always with a pair
of beautiful, age-lined faces,
one dark, one light
– perhaps Finnish –
and the child of
the hybrid
colour,
disposition, cannot cut through
the tall hedgerow
with its soft cuttlebone
teeth. The child
has nothing to eat, gaping
holes in both sock
heels
to contend with.
Imminent night.
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