> Subterranean


Par |2019-01-22T03:39:53+00:00 25 mai 2014|Catégories : Blog|


I’m not tal­king about the under­side of a kitten’s
bel­ly, or the layers of dress on a modest woman’s

corpse. I don’t mean that beneath the skin there’s
a world of vein, meat and bone. No, I’m tal­king about

mantle and core – the vis­cous, shif­ting sub­stra­ta
beneath the camel’s hoof, beneath the sand,

beneath the crust beneath the sand. I think there are
birds in there, flying around inside the earth’s body,

birds flying over oceans, streams and lakes, chil­dren
lau­ghing beside rivers, mothers cal­ling them home

to sup­per by bea­ting woo­den spoons on the sides
of alu­mi­num pots. It doesn’t mat­ter that we can’t see

them, or even that my theo­ry has been dis­pro­ven.
I go where the laugh­ter is, pure and simple, and I say

this ball of clay is real­ly an onion, a snake coi­led
around a boun­cing ball, a swirl of petals explo­ding

from bud. It’s simple, real­ly : love is the pack on a
hitchhiker’s back, eve­ry­thing he owns, eve­ryw­here

he goes, the only article that can’t be left behind.
And we’ve all got our thumbs out, poin­ted towards

that other realm, the one beneath the skin, beneath
the bone and mar­row and vei­ny streams of blood, where gods

await us like lovers, like dense smoke, like cra­cked
and for­got­ten mir­rors, reflec­ting the sin­gu­lar route home.