[what desire does not seem]
as of the distance across a sea.
meridians meet ley lines in carnal, I mean cardinal, directions.
not only on the flesh but of, through.
didn’t Paracelsus say the choreography of sky’s sun, moon, & stars corresponds to the stars, moon, & sun orbiting inside the viscera, that other vault, smaller heaven?
blank spaces on maps were sleeping beauties once.
(I’ve known a kiss to wake.)
but not blank or beautiful anymore, the cartographer said—homo sapiens being a fundamentally invasive species — &, what’s more, somnolent.
how the only terra still incognita sleepwalks between brain & mind, neither beginning, neither ending.
as if a gate one can enter, gridlines drawn by a hand that touches to see.
not through any needle’s eye falling blue, nevertheless.
red bird through the human — not eye, but in — beyond.
tremolo, in the gospel desert flower according to Agnes Martin, unbeckoning grass.
white stone, little sister, white flower.
on a clear day where wood, where stone.
“without cause in this world.”
innocence, say, or everyday happiness, even love.
often, untitled, eternity.
— for Brian Teareabout the author