blackbirdonline journalSpring 2009  Vol. 8  No. 1
print version


Dear P. XXIV

The scientific has gone, what’s left—fires
that leap, that suction my love into threads
I cannot collect or control. Frequencies
here have no waveform. Just straight lines
towards. Everything has excavated itself
and everything has altered in the way water
in a pool breaks up light into pieces, in the
way the light is tranced into approximations
and deviations, into eyeless swirls that never
fix. I have born witness to this giant, this
love for you that never leaves, that burrows
laterally and downwards, that imprints on
my skin, the way goggles leave a mark long
after I have taken them off.  end