A candelabra floats through the air. Your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to vanish me. But I always reappear, stage left.
My empty clothes are an index of this phenomenon.
In the archive, we trace the contours of dead writing, graphemes that have outlived their referent. A glacier, a cinder – my orbit is more elliptical than most.
Do you really think that my body is contingent on yours?
Am I a ghost or a star?
It is a night of angels, of dark water, of urgency, of conflagrated shimmer, of lustrous wet, of smoke, of fast emotion, of whimsy, of good canine, of palimpsests, of hot glossolalia– the body goes opaque, the heart a glaucous organ
Tapping the edge of a vodka glass on the table, it all depends on the solidity of objects again. Not knowing how to fold limbs, where to put hands, how to mind the circle. Circular, we exchange passwords to be replaced weekly. The moment buckles under the pressure of my reticence
Unshod in the clutches of love’s languor, you often manage to say the wrong thing. But sometimes, you pin it with exactitude. Today you tell me that when dust particles from decaying books enter the reader’s respiratory system, the body is reconstituted by the archive. I am in bed when you send this email, but the absence of dust in the exchange refuses relation. The archive stays on your screen and the dust comes only from the dead skin in my sheets – your sheets. I was startled by the intensity of my desire. Jarring, the sudden closeness of your wrists, the body’s closed chambers liquid and uneven
it swells the scanty rills of thought
But the experiment fails – the surface of the planet goes still. You find another archivist and stop coming to my chamber, my heart, lit by all these dying fluorescents. I haunt this celestial edit, wingwracking in the night
Am I a ghost or a star? Does the body pull the mind into orbit? I find it difficult to reconcile this new relation with the old one: I hold your doppelgänger, I touch your neck. You direct a beam of radiation at my centre. The sea carries it all away