Yes we were loved, no there was no specific reason or body who could love us, yes the days surrounded us beyond our need though they were not days, yes we might have liked to stay inside the house inside the hour aching spindled in a rash, the persons in persons piling in us until there seemed so many the color came upon us on our own, yes the light would size around us like all the clothes we’d ever breathed inside of or against, each sound funneled through and through the sound surrounding aboveground, like all the humming through the beings, for every inch where we’d been brushed and every instant we’d been flooded, every wallow of the ash, we could can hold the word inside our shape inside the evening for as long as we would like unwound, and the light will hold us and the shape will hold us up
The time between the tone goes on the prayer goes on the flesh goes on the day goes on the want goes on in all this folding the milk goes on the soil goes on the thrush goes on the bark goes on the gold goes on the tone goes on, there is the day, it is any day for all of us again where we have folded and must fold and so again, you don’t have to raise a flesh you don’t have to turn a page and yet you will or you will not and for all of this I become you and we become you and the word is in your lungs, you cannot breathe the word
The rooms in here where we have centered and the hue around our having, the split of skin where all have entered and the crush of sound commands a sound split from which there has never been a silence and never would be, itch for itch and light for eye, node for pink inside the insect of what incoming as it exits from its sleeve in dreamless meat where no one sleeps, a cream inside a cord, a lung inside a slowing, each day shaved beyond its prior phrasing’s aping woke
Where what had been forgiven is what must be forgiven, what had been forgotten must be lost, cold long char of brain meat crushed between two words until the field is flatter than the rind inside a floe burst from bursting uncommanded before the mouth could open wide enough to give the body air, the cells aflutter, the dust aflutter, where to flutter is to want
The grain in the game of the soft of the nape of the wet of the gray of the back of the scape of the showering conundrum pricking open and surrounded and surrounding all absorbed all cracked agate in the earthless furnace tongued with expectation
Waved to spark the seizing through its surface past the stirrup and the phase, what could have stung itself in pleasure lifting the lids on what had held
So long carried on in bulk repeating the shape began to look exactly like itself
All hours pressed in any instant
Now