Root Cap

what a root grows into

nothing ignites the wait that comes with the wake of sleep
for no fire can burn away what even light needs to see

the dark

when we wake from sleep we embrace what inflames dream
this surrounding a sacrifice to what in time will immolate even sleep

nothing is more open than a hole
precisely because
nothing is what opens a hole
and precisely because
an embrace like light or death
can close it

nothing is what a flower surrenders
what a hole can engender. the ecstasy
conspicuous in each, is, as well
conspicuous in sex & death

pretty much everything

fruit of the flower of life

whatever else it may be, it is without—this thing-in-itself. i cannot bury it. you cannot grow it. we cannot leave it alone. it is where everything goes. in the great vault of storms. in the remembering swollen below. like a world of ruin, it endures & as we conceive, "this" is what we think is most conspicuously this.
the not of transcendence that nothing gives. this fierce endeavor a flower cannot surrender.

the swarm

it's-this-simple?

to be in love is to work at thinking so thought can exceed endeavor
the way roots work so seeds that convene with either transcend being buried

the thing-in-itself

beside eternity

in gathering we come to a side that in the best of time
withdraws a between that a sun empties into—we convene
to conceive & then go in peace only because
this is what we call for

divinity before old age

a dimension of eternity

what lives?

beside the withdrawal of what cannot where nothing is
this "is" is the romance of becoming—how starlight
makes vivid the call for existence

here is a “side” that bears—its being withstanding the distance
that otherwise is absolute resistance

we, who collapse immortality

what lives?

beside embryos there is a lot to be said
about “reproduction” not the least of which is death

& beside this?

sleep that burns away the fire all death is pregnant with

a planet

buried

I can think of life
thanks to things like the weather of light—this erosion of emptiness in effort
to raise the dead from that in which I thank those who think of death instead

a seed

the interred

the sun endeavors, confident its dark—no longer an “intent”
tending instead toward our existence (“nothing” than its effort)
—is engendered.

how is this so? regard the pores
that holes under take

an embryo’s appetite

awake

year end nothingness

what is it that waits this way?

not death. that waits in the green annulus

& not sex. that wait wastes cambium

i think the wait is the way we sleep

—in the dark a fire that waits for trees

dirt

meta pherein

“absolute zero” is like “the unknown”—what a lively atom may bare
to immortals. but there is no atom this warm. the barren know
—absolute, by death, is cold life ignited

our nothingness

the many that make us a many make our ignorance profound

the noise of sense is the silence we know when we think
& noise is just that—a silence that thinks it knows itself

Immanuel Kant

when pupa is mistaken for pupa & its fate for a fly
the hole, mistaken for a hole & its end for the end
than “the end” is not the great nest we’re in, but
—how else to say it? —a grave beginning