What Is To Be Done

The constellation of the body. Bare   out of season, stretched out over the horizon, over the mountains older than bone.

She wakes to find the smallest places in her overflowing. the gaps in the fade.

I wanted to write something useful, but all I’ve found is this:  The wrack and shuffle of language. How it is all pushed into this one, tiny thing.

If I could slip it into the fade, that hole in the nothing, and swallow it for you, or suck it out from your body like a sliver  hold it up for some sun to dissolve. What would be left?

I know the ash of this. How, once smudged or drawn over the body, it conceals the burial. How we move, thick with grief, over the plains of our interiors, how we chase some horizon of bone.

If anything can be made of it: Pieces here and there. All ephemera in their shapes, yet something always remains. A ring, or a smudge of grief comes into view.

II

I have invested so much into the air. You can see it float down in the smoke from the fires that sit at the horizon to settle in the muck and mire.

The sweet morass of fate, punctuated here and there by bullet holes, by grief, by history and the compound fractures of it’s gaze. Here we bleed out, and stuff our wounds inch by inch with the materials of our Master’s making.

I, like you,                            have gone out. the undercommons. a place out of view, where the revolution builds. I have