You Say You Need the World to be the World Again (a haibun)

 
What wounds, what overgrown fields and blunted 
ploughs. What skies dangling with freefall of 
blasted birds. What broken shelves of mountains 
on which markhor have left behind their winter 
coats, their spiraled horns. What towns of smoke 
and elegy of 9 AM shadow. What strange noons 
of orange fog, an acreage of embers sparking 
into fire. The moon keeps a tally on its chipped 
marble whiteboard: each plank of hewn and stolen 
wood; each pod of pilot whales and porpoises, 
their effort to steer out of boiled saltwater 
to strand upon the coast. And you, mouth that 
did not eat of soups with sea-turtle eggs and 
pangolin flesh, that did not tear the joints 
off buttonquail roasted on bamboo spits, that 
did not dip a spoon into stews of elk— yet 
you dressed your skin in velvet and let them 
dwindle into abandoned shells, sink like rusted 
vessels. Always at dusk, the ancestors visit: 
their wings cleave air you find increasingly 
hard to breathe. What wounds, what fingerprints 
you’ve left on every surface: hard as diamond 
points, scattershot trails visible from thousands 
of miles above the earth.
 
There’s only this moment. 
Don’t call on stars or meteors.
Don’t speak just to speak.

 

 

In response to Via Negativa: Unthinkability.

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