…a wound of stillness…
root-worded, a long-toothed creature of the grave must I be;
sacrificing my eye to the mad tree, defiant.
There is a many-tongued spiraling silence
blooming creation in destruction -
reaching forward and stretching back into every insignificance -
I am living and dying them,
repeatedly in once and forever
layered and -
seasonal-held in confrontation: the warp and weft,
weaving permanence -
no, merely weathering in-rhythm an existential quietude
book-ended by void where no abyssal brine pool can fluoresce to offer texture or tonality -
Yet if there is anything that does not inspire terror or dread,
it is the fundamental humbling mystery of Rho Ophiuchi and its dark river clouds,
pure dense substance, my remaining eye
peering into self - out of self - denying selfhood,
subsumed on such a scale that invites naught but temperance and surrender.
vi. blood of my blood, it is always this;
it has always been as this.
let us call it a tide in the sky, a summoning -
a key to cloud atlas mapping,
nebula asperitas or
a ritual of a private mythology