In the Škocjan Voids

By | 1 March 2015

Apples hang low their fat hearts.
The lizard is an autonomous tongue
champ of crevices, arrow reacher
she brings to light
and then to shadow
the false
jewel fools
and ruby green, and emerald red

he grabs, he extends his legs in prayer.
He kneels and springs. Abandon
an underworld
of calcites massed to imperfection
pilloried in gothic vaults and too fast

they drive through vacancy sculpted
by lights and the red electricity
of the dead
void and
misplacing the orifices,
mistaking for humanity
what never bends into speech:

take the extension of the grass
hopper, kneading a plot rammed
into chopped sleepers, stag
horns on warring tribes
infant bats and the zip alarms
its human food.

Turn on the light to keep
the sky warm and the moon made of wishes
in any language scratches
on the infant
and ankle move downward each day,
their fast health shows the direction
skin grows
and water pushes
relentlessly through the foundations
like peace through a pastoral
settlement whose rim is painted
by a train pulling
its western sledge
of noise.

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