Landscape, with Interior and Wind Tunnels

I've been thinking of architecture;
the ways we shape matter in order 
for the body to move both more 
cleanly and more 
hiddenly in space.

How often my thigh makes contact
with the same corner of the bed
in the morning as I swim 
upward and out of 
a miasma of dreams—

The milk-screen of the body 
bears the marks of each darker 
letter; sprouts bluegreen
branches that lighten 
and aureole with time.

It's said that when a body blossoms 
with coronas of shadow, it needs
a deeper listening. Perhaps 
the way you, combing through
grass, might then come  

upon a lost bone or pearl. I am
almost sure the infinite began 
somewhere: a point, a scintillant, 
before it birthed itself
a million luminous bees.

They circled the known universe before 
changing frequency. The shells that carried 
them drifted on the wind. It's why we turn, 
as if in search of a corridor 
without obstruction.
 
 



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