poem: x8 – y5 // on Berfrois


excerpt from x8 – y5:

[might I] equate you with a dry forest that swells with noise to which there
is an urgency
painted with heat, tatters shaking
near tropic but lacking in that heavy darkness depth thickening
your utterings spread across such distance or I’m imagining language at all
memorize the climate etched into the sphinx face breathless traveller turned
away no well or stars or bells in the desert
Takemitsu’s harp, same brittle plucking of strings the stupidity of angels
a moss that creeps along vulnerable the sound it makes invisible across