An event can be made out of the traces left against skin. Everything reveals itself to the body as a universe that trembles with wildness. I took this place into me—invisible memory that passes between bodies—a fury out of material solitude—simple being makes limit of the other—a collision that says, this far and no farther until you are at a dreadful distance in the undercurrents of disquiet.
I take you in to be buried—
a red coal in the sleep that might not be darkness.
Er drinking from Lethe in the twelve days upon which depends the seeing Lazarus—a Lazarus reborn into a beast of black and blue and carrying the stench of slow-acting poison—a beast of brutal innocence—black and blue Lazarus hauling lifeforce from that distance—metempsychosis—again and again he comes back blind—he leaves his sight in the river Lethe, letting her course against his blood and chill the memory of heat—take him into you—you are never one—you must forget the body to know—open your body let him spit upon you. He comes back blind, oh Lazarus, and gives back his black and blue—a thousand arms out of law with the body—she might as well enjoy it—horror vacui of a species adrift is crushing her body into dust so that now she is certain that she is forgetting how to move—over new line, thin scars burned over white—a marbling of one crack upon the other where history sinks into softer material—each line draws towards a centre and differentiates world out of world until it is something of a deep void cupped in iterations of Cicero’s perfect sphere and the cosmic egg Brahmanda—within, one upon one—unwind me into origin—and it settled into a soft pit came as a single breath, clenched and unmoving.
You, weightless, forgetting of the weight of a body—Can I shed your heavy body and contain that human part—
Had there been a space there—she imagined that her body contained
space—it was an opaque thing
And maybe this is what it is to reincarnate within this span against thoughtless order—to know and unknow and begin to know again
—as if this could be shed in the forgiveness that is violent
It was a quiet
My realm is in the resignation to pattern—
how long until the old cells regenerate?