by Cort Day
Volitionless Nature, why don't you call? My bygones riffed the clumsy trees. I'll put down my jug a mile from here. I'll inherit a necklace of holey dollars. There is a meadow. It is carbon. Around it the stonemint grows and grows. You are inside it, tiny iota. And that is my hyena on your chain. I hear your future in the clanking grasses. Your selihoth burns on the end of my tongue.
All night the Pleiades shone on my nipple. Skull making investments in the sacristy. Buy cormorant low. Sell cormorant high. The docile have eaten their weight in gold. I'm here to avenge: cormorant. In my bird costume. The ocean's defunct. The neoplasms come in on half-shells. The seabirds arrive to "stir the blood." Every portfolio has a tapeworm. Outside this reticulum, I love myself.
A convection of voices. A drum. I mime their desert in my foxhole. Mindful of my schematics, my electrical grid. Now: rain to scrub the village clean. Sun to make the voices diverge and swell. White bedclothes hang undulant in song. The keeper is a tree of bleached bone. The horizon a book of voices of bone. Now: a litter of flowers. The people are dancing. Dancing and swirling at the ecstasy pulpit.