I’m the steady center of a spinning world.
The cells in me are strengthening.
Suddenly there is a meadow in the ocean.
These days they’re calling me
by another name.
The clouds are placeholders
waiting for me to say something.
Anything is good enough.
For instance, let’s say the body
is another kind of evening.
And for the sake of the body, I will not speak
of the moon, of its moving parts,
pardoning my mouth.
We want to believe everything has meaning.
Plums blossom over a power grid
and I am in love again. The shame of it.
Smokestacks rise into the clouds of your face.
Ash to ash to ash.
We can not tell what is what.
I stand in a doorway, a vase
of colorless flowers. The same of it.
Thin white stems. My face, loosening
in water. How becoming of me,
this rattling meadow.
The cold cut of a star melts.
Tell me, what are we supposed to dissolve for?
The little crow of your lungs kicking
the winding manors
of the heart.
A farm hunkers down.
An antler shines cleanly in water.
Please don’t get lonely
cutting a potato in half and again.
Let the comets pass
above our heads.
These little triangles of pity
repeat a mountain range.
I am always finding ways to be offended.
I have lost my coat to no
wind. The roots of an evergreen knit me
a crown, my head in moss.
This too is a moment.
I walk around with all my violent decisions.
Once, I took a sword to the wind.
The rattling earth cut my mouth.
A tree with white limbs will grow there one day.
If I could imagine you in a field of grain working.
When the blood in my brain forms an aria,
this is the song I will give to you.
Asphalt spilling into the open field.
An ant runs across my thigh
and falls. Rain fills a construction tarp
to make the lake we swim in,
waves suffering none.
Jane Wong, “Clearing” (via renegadetongue)
(Source: ostrichreview.com, via renegadetongue)