Old connections | that have the fray of | unuse and worn time in them | crackle back into | the labour of their circuits once again…

Moth minds | fluttering /

Tired lamps with a brittle light | memories so frail, we must ask | are these our memories? | are these | eyes | these | lips and fingers | real?

Frayed wings, and the patterns of | embroidered gold | faded and torn / but the afternoon | charges to lushness | fattens its clouds and the sift of vapour, our | plumes of thought from | long ago or from | a | moment ago

Recalled the chimneys and the letters burnt

Ghosts in stout climbing boots | with walking sticks fashioned from | diamond willow or honey locust | with peaked caps and tweed jackets | hail the mountain and | when they fall still | hear the rustle of chrysalis | in the wind | ferns | stones…

Hear the rustle of chrysalis…

Fan of wings in the Sunday traffic, fan of wings in the concrete, fan of wings…

Pollen clots the eyes | Kisses clot | the hours, bedsprings | creak from shifting bodies, our weight | thrown out in pinches of | Plato and musk | semen and | elm…

Moth minds | fluttering /

Old tracks | brittle where the neurons | failed | died back | where the hippocampus or the amygdala | fell down to | groves of | ash or | maple or | bamboo || feel the footsteps flushing them with | direction again | with curiosity and with | hope again

As they usually do, kisses | ripping through the shrouds | and the succulence of the berries | in the centre that we | seek and | squeeze out and | into…

Arrive!

As the wet wings unfold | flights fan into the morning | By nightfall | all this will be far away…


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

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