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Bark, Archive, Splinter [“Disrespecting private property”]
Bark, archive, splinter Disrespecting private property Embargo on couplets A year without. And to have zero to use against the departed Lightning throws its hook onto a tree like a digital greeting. A tap and Dry air turns prismatic. Dissolving acoustic atmosphere from a slack background Whenever a forest has a shyness to perceive its own form and period And this is promised too, the unreachable origin In the span of another night the ground gets even more parenthetical, aerated: elastic ease in the loam post-rainfall Assurance that the siren of tree frogs is for a later disaster He had once said: Let’s cut this plastic from the mattress-in-a-box now With your head on his chest, over his heart, like a jeweller’s loupe Perhaps we are, ourselves, the threshold Opening interval. Spalted wood. You said Listen For example. Did he not warn you once about a story involving a poultice of wolf lichen, the colour of chartreuse, stuffed in a reindeer carcass alongside powdered glass, fatal to meat-eaters, yes, although never to mice nor rabbits. No, never to mice nor rabbits Where did that queer powder come from? Perhaps from a vacation ornament you threw onto the floor, or from a medieval delusion of glass which never ended. It spreads itself along every generation Tonight, the sky seems so afraid of shattering And you see how the ecology of this model continues exchanging endlessly Imagine an intimate talking that takes place across an impossibly prolonged time –––line You sent him a link to the work of a photographer, who wrote: For one year, I photographed trees within near my house—the goal to create images from the ordinary and mundane What makes a tree ordinary Both beyond and near the threshold of one’s human survival A short poem or a long poem that writes itself forever, an anatomy of suffocating wildness. This pestilential monostich is the perfect vector for Transpiercing middle ground Erasing the trees in the space between you and Perforating this fantasy, an endless mote of a thought still flags and flees; besides, don’t forget those imported chestnuts he once poured into your cupped hands, out of a packet he promised had yet to expire. Each globe radically saturated with strands of ether of white wondrous mould of