August 2015, for her.
You must look in before you understand out. Broken vessels, fractures, fissures, of rock: bleeding thunder, jello’d plasma. Milk from metal udders, collapsed lungs of quartz; a failed dialysis of the earth, the snot of Hephaestus, granite churches.
A glass of frozen cream shot through with hot ink. The blood of ice.
Constellations under the fingernails of our earth, a geological alphabet
Of consonants, vowels, verbs, and punctuation—
Read the belly of slag like a paragraph of Shakespeare.
In our own time, we seek all and find nothing. Then, we learn the language which helps us explain our desires, best. We live through what we love, not what loves us.
Beauty dwells in confident expression; she nuzzles the embroidery of time,
Stitched upon the soft skin of the earth. She will tie knots everywhere but herself.
In our loneliness, we created god in our image. In our fear, we believed in our invention. That rock of ages, the harvest of time.
And so we whisper the earth awake with the fist of our hammer. Awake from her amnesia. We trace the claws of rocks through ledges of heat, the subtlety of heat. What we do to each other, rocks do to themselves. A living cemetery, a requiem for a watch that never touched our wrists.