For Clarice Lispector Genevieve Lovern
In it’s infancy, explodes, as if between lush and folding tree limbs, fronds of glittering and sickening greens, and the apparition white uncleaved cotton-appearing flowers that overstalk and flip, like lids, or yeast-free baked bread that caves—no pops, there is no indication—it folds into itself and, as below rice, bubbles, no alleviating spaces. This—water and sugar one boils, creating of it rock or stone—when crushed, when hammered, the crystal opens, the shards easily fall, but with consequence. They shake on surface until stiff.
Cut kale under wash spreads like a webbed hand unclasps a branch, under moving water of minerals and fish—later, the cherry tomatoes, and later the sweating melon, ginger-yellow insides of icy slipperiness, slippy glass, this gift of Earth after lightening bends a cluster of sand—an abrupt sound: its separation from itself, such is if logs were to combust. Exploding it, don’t forget the sun that slides along the sky and disappears.
Clarice, today I saw the ants, like raisins, reach their bodies over the sodden sod which nearly washed away in the rain that rolls at night. Have you forgotten the scent of sapling, or haloing palm fronds—umbrella fronds—or even the Earth, achingly and disgustingly similar to the hollows of the roach, to bugs or stalks crushed, their juices, that it is evident there is God within them the most—the grass here is thin, soft, cold, and wet—it’s overdewed—and it is like hair, even the pine; the two finger and tangle each other. In my heart an animal resides and resists, whose body twists and festinates underwater.