There it is the orange blossom field
There are bones here buried bones
I made it out in tears
To find we in pairs
There were no windows
For a rain so sudden
I a mathematic of else
I mathematic
I who would never find your hand
There it is
PARATAXIS
I who would never find your hand
So there I laid
A fire made
Geometry and flame
Praying to language
To claim my organs
Which would be
Proof of me (hiding, hidden)
In the absence of light, there are no reflections
Symmetry is a maze
There is neither choir here, nor goddess
We’ve no bones
Ibis mangroves of my totem slither without reproach
I seek you; if’s every butterfly
Jah morning you may acrolect
To I to whom it is I refer to as me
The river that runs wild in through mangrove
That slither of the salt of my belief
I who forget to sing of water
This is misery
I’ve preserved skull
I’ve preserved stone
I’ve written to blood
I’ve prayed to root
To the first sun
Wherein di seat is a
Spiral, knitting together
Mending the other’s death
From a pot of clay
The moments that tide
The bones of our case
Where it is light
Where it is lamp
Where it is rainbow.
