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I was working the free radicals, the delay, looking for a method
in this desire of constituting a whole. As if to reconstruct an
imagined world in shades of red seen through light particles of
varying density. Red, darker red, orange-red, air—as in being
given an audience and so the ability to perform the whole, the
parts there of, the keening. Allowing a “her” into
the abstraction arrests it for a moment. This abstraction has been
arrested, as a form of grace, light in ash-dense air gilds the
trees. We are not satisfied.
Patches of sky. Which brings us the
new entity formed and named
by metaphor for the sake of the object suspended, the noblest part
of earth, before we find it blowing so away, as if a statue, not
of earth, but of trees charred to cinder. Red. Or we can take the
line of our fallen state. Darker red. For if earth is the center
of the body, heaven is the center of the soul, with its planned
moving, mutability conceded for the pattern, for a constant assurance
of species and her parts. Orange-red. We are her species. We are
her parts. The abstraction loses its arrest and we wake to the
story of the flying bird, now held in her hand and slit down the
middle
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