It turns out now there was nothing of me
In the real world.
Even imagination peeled
My soul away like the old from its place,
Where it was whole.
I am not imaginable.
I cannot see even other people,
Being part of wherever I go.
It arrives
All red eyes, a dragonfly, first bright sign
Of a summer that's been more than what we are.
It tells me not to get too close, for the
Actual is so much stronger
Than supposed,
And it needs no help from me, all response,
To stoke the inflammation of others,
On wounds not meant to heal.
For what burns
Acquires wings, assumes transparency,
To brandish patterns from that other realm.
Liberated from shape, it finds its own
In darkness and in silence.
The gourds shake
Like cicadas. The rifts will continue to blister
The skin away.
Our dances have fallen
To langour. There is only belief, the blood
Of summer, in which everything dissolves.
