Fate / fatality
Amore / Et mort
I hinder Hypnos and his half-brother during so-called night,
Night, a subjective / relative overlap when shadow-mind pulls the lashes down one’s eyes, pulls The wool
over one’s sheep, caws from one’s throat, the raven of death.
As a prognosticating predator, a carrion crow
As a myopic mediator, a psychopompos
At dusk, birthing into our deluding lucency
Echoes on ghosted salt flats of pre-memory,
Red / black checkered hunting breeches I wore, a de facto Elmer J. Fudd,
Seriously harming myself and shkeuwing up, night after night after night. “Night” as a farewell
When blasting off into astronomical eventide. Once the glow fades. Once
Night went on for days. Night, as what’s left
Of glittering detritus in the morn, pointing, declaiming, “That was Night.”
Intelligences perceive night
Through as a variety of orbital periods. Dreams, too,
Can collide like celestial bodies, like nebulae desires with impacts on life.
Like the disappearance of sunlight, loss of sleep, of an envelope
In which Night is sealed or wrapped in starry gift paper of
Fearsome lightlessness and midnight vacuum.
Once I believed I couldn’t live one more night, the fecundity of day: triple
Crème brie. Night, a painting I lent you one noon, a parting gap for your private hands,
Recollecting how you collect herbs to dry as visual memories of warm
Nights, a bundle of desiccated twigs strung like stars in a closeted planetarium.
The Other Cat
So much worse for the wood that finds it’s a violin*
So much worse for the jay heart that beats beside frog hearts and skunk hearts and beaver
hearts and five adjoined earthworm hearts and find that together the hearts are the mountain heart which
sings to the wavy hair on mountain’s scalp, flying through tangled currents of air
So much worse for the rabbit hide that finds it’s bearing a book of psalms
So much worse for Daphne who trips on her rhizome of a tale which alters like tensile light
across time, though endures forever a single-stitched plot
So much worse for Murasaki who reads under a scholar tree and finds she’s read, sounds cast
across millennia, sucked into strains of birdsong that circle her dewy brow in the morning mist
So much worse for Schrödinger’s cat whose shadow pixelates as he walks from the box to
sun’s umbra, cradling him in adumbrated dream
*From a letter by Rimbaud to Georges Izambard.