there is no time for bones. changing skins of sex fire and other enlightened things. each springtime, whether to erase time or bare ourselves to the sun. (some people wear out their elbows that way.) mouths like wine and knives in oranges. this is the stuff of naked poetry, sayable for unsayable things.
it’s like a cure for metaphysical disease. the idea of a pure silk body, the warmth of isolation, is a simple deceptive statement. (too cumbersome for trees.) but you and i—you and i—are not synthetic. we don’t wear houses. or cover our mouths with styrofoam. (not yet.) the distance between premonitions is real.
you and i, we got bones for unthinkable things. for ancestors and campfires and miracle of hummingbirds. wooden scent of afternoon rain. the preservation of myths, forests. and the radical idea the world is (not) infinite madness. faith is the universe reborn in a body. fresh magic of laughter, play, sex, surprise. invisible for invisible things.