I've been thinking of architecture; the ways we shape matter in order for the body to move both more cleanly and more hiddenly in space. How often my thigh makes contact with the same corner of the bed in the morning as I swim upward and out of a miasma of dreams— The milk-screen of the body bears the marks of each darker letter; sprouts bluegreen branches that lighten and aureole with time. It's said that when a body blossoms with coronas of shadow, it needs a deeper listening. Perhaps the way you, combing through grass, might then come upon a lost bone or pearl. I am almost sure the infinite began somewhere: a point, a scintillant, before it birthed itself a million luminous bees. They circled the known universe before changing frequency. The shells that carried them drifted on the wind. It's why we turn, as if in search of a corridor without obstruction.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.