poem: coven of fifteen

now reset to cyclical sad: it is natural, when the green comes loose
in fluid forgiving, to find solace in the Old. slicing through falling
time imagining a baby here, in this place, with this music — or the strain of it
at another place. rummaging through person unbeset by aberration – 30 second
brain-warp! the internet produces a response which mimics ADHD; you are not
unmade merely overworked neurotic and reduced to fragmentation by
something nebulous about living in
declined rome – and yet you are whole, do not submit to a falsification of
self, that final bulwark; I remember at fifteen the hills were bulging and low, the
fresh came fluid from delta-water, streaming creek too Green
to take, vines in my uterus crawling out under library table. now autumn works, to make
the present living — a reality; this October I crawl into myself.
i have not spooked, ten years ago the cycle
was born and felt, attention-span sad modern trial – open palms, new heat wave, the
washing of this body into something else.