the dark stuff of thought the dead take care to wake the wild with, makes us, who most rely upon the sun to shine, take up desire—for what is a seed if not the need to bury in sleep so that in dream we who live may, well, think?
a ravished flower
to grow is to bury the bearing forth
until the bearing forth that is buried
bears fruit by that which is barren
for "that which is" (being a void)
is like the one a seed will die for
a soil pore
what power is in the dead but that which stands the ravishment
an un-sprung bearing coiled within a dark ambition the sun's against
a dark not for stars but god to sex, to spill a hole for ruin to nourish
a love the dead must bury to bear this sunny insistence
a riparian gallery of trees
unable to grow while hidden away
it resists a kind of seedness whose integuments
deny a crown fire its forgetfulness
opens remembering what comes in a dry wind
roots withstand (among the buried) to stiffen
& increase in distance what rings this presence
this that endures the flourishing
until the one seed's bright tree perishes
& in its place gathered against the dark
accumulation of weathered rock
(what one ring after another had gripped
surrounded with a sunny insistence)
a soul surrendered--ready to bear the buried
fulfillment for what is promised in the spacious offering, for what is due; absence the expectant creek-beds are parched with, what assumes abandon root pores; a going-away green in fire pregnant of brush, aborted by rain (a wind not penetrate the way thirst was) a swelling bacterium waits on like an embryo the heat of the great horn; an obscure patch of increase beneath the influence of a sea are what the dead have made room for, is a nest by which even a speck of dust is an egg that makes love useful
a pacific storm
if birth is what ecstasy surrenders to intercourse (like remembrance, what pores surrender to sediment!) & communion what effort surrenders to the blessed
as desire what wings surrender to wind or issue what the dead surrender
to ferment, than is love what holes surrender to this—conception, what eggs the everlasting conceives of emptiness, surrendering to soil what i will make of it?
what's in the ruin where holes are the roots of tombs
corpse or embryo if not to be is the seed of divinity?
The empty vessel is expectant. The expectant vessel is pregnant.
If the one is the sun when it dies, and the other when it shines,
or the one nourishing fruit, the other seed with root---life-giving
is the ground of dark, this vessel of vessels.
Like a river of death, the yawning abyss sheds its energy, heaves its sediment & meanders remote films of water---shudder of life, this trembling emptiness.
Like interstellar waste, this insensible, yawning abyss rushes the breach & swells the pores absent those who thrive & perish, unnoticed in soil.
Like a spirit upon the deep, a wild universe conceives this empty extreme whereby the faithful isopod beneath a rock is bound for heaven.
Those in despair see only a seething power writhing with obscure passion & not this pore of fatality pregnant with the everlasting.
To those of no sight, it is called the depth of darkness. To those afflicted with the absolute, it is not a lively death, not this absence in sediments, not the increase & waste of the infinite.
Look at how it opens in spring rain & makes for our desire. Look at how the rotifers, water bears & nematodes; at the chytridic saprobes & arbuscular mycorrhizas; the potworms, ants, mites & beetles; at the wood lice & earwigs; the roots of grass & tree, their buried seed—look at how they open like starlight in the dark of night; at how they move through the withdrawn absence like the trembling of infant suns.
See how the anguish of an ocean dies in a nascent stream sprung from the terrible mountain.
See how the shudder of Love by this heaving sediment, gathers its energy.
I know the issue for I have sucked promise from the face of it. I have mingled my freedom with Fluvellin & become amorous. I have become vague by the indeterminacy of Pig Thistle. I am listing toward ruin in the waste of things I know of only in their flourishing. Therefore hopeful as I contemplate the ejaculation of a sun that excites the north wind, stirring the dark where rivers die; a dark that drowns Diptera in the dust the old leave behind; that makes "dirt" the flies of heaven. I am what I could never have reasoned, a scandal of some physical imagination that knows the ignorant rain & the notorious errors that matter. The "gravity" of error that creatures our flux, creatured by a kind of ignorance God is ignorant of.
Plebejus acmon
