The human body is not the world, and yet it is. The world contains it, and is itself contained. Just so. The distance between the two Is like the distance between the no and the yes, abysmal distance,
Nothing and everything. Just so.
This morning I move my body like a spring machine Among the dormant and semi-dead, The shorn branches and stubbed twigs hostile after the rain,
Grumpy and tapped out as go-betweens. Blossoming plum tree coronal toast, cankered and burned.
When body becomes the unbody, Look hard for its certitude, inconclusive, commensurate thing. Look for its lesson and camouflage. Look hard for its leash point and link-up. The shadow of the magnolia tree is short shrift for the grass.
I move through the afternoon. autumnal in pre-spring,
October-headed, hoarfrost-fingered. The body inside the body is the body I want to come to-- I see it everywhere, Lisping and licking itself, breaking and entering.