Root Cap

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

immortality is what time bears
& without the latter springs eternal
but only the unwinding of us
coil thus

the expectation of ruin

a tree against the river against the sea. to pass away is a seed of rain

a matter of time, it goes this way (like the dead) to present a flame to the heap that endeavors a hole deep enough in the going for the god to make it a grave that the sun can shine against. a fire that divides & though it burns thru it cannot burn away what in every instant is the against being made.

Lazarus

on their way

beneath the funeral pyre of the god, cellular life
is what the dead use to light the fire

the dark

that That

so that the eternal can die, the dead labor with shovels: the one makes a hole
that can hold the other a lifetime

yield & sway

if gods are destined to die while cellular life but a changeling of the eternal
than death is divine and to live what is most immortal

a pubescent empedocles

bare with me

a void voids to welcome the eternal; its "life", our death, the reciprocal of what seed is to fire whose flower is the grave a god has spoiled—all these pores are breath made immortal, to keep what is joined by heat separate from "a moment in time filled with emptiness”

the hair of a root

Fire

since to perish is nothing when it is past, when it is present to perish is all
& even a livelihood for time to come, which because of it, endeavors a decay
so that that the nothing to be can become, well, everything

the spark