CEDAR SPIKING

Cedar spiking to heaven, what can you say of green noon and its fertilities, its bronze delays, as the fountain apportions time with such transparent fissions, wet incisions—source stems. We were speaking of columns, sharp projecting lines, radiating from each thing shaken, as rays of roses make weep the scarred sun. Skin browns on the woman’s bones, an affliction. “Projects from a soul’s stain, outering” or is shade from a shadow falling—“throats, whelps, sharps, seeps”—an abstract pain, and eats its form. Wake me into fixity, a better dream than this pieceless collision. We were speaking of the links and the drops and the particulate borders, the pigments and chars. We were hectic degrees of declivities. We were burning.