i stood at zero dark of aphelion, and beheld–
altocumulus at altitudes almighty. i went to the clouds to see the cobalt blue devil that lives in a vanilla orchid.
i asked her: to die, what does it mean?
“no;” she said, “the exodus, the taking away is the equinox of death and life: both”
is that the meaning?
“occur on a single day; and that day is an entire human lifetime. the season of fatal dark and final light is a candle: out it goes.”
so I ask, can you take a soul without killing it?
“that is a question for the haruspex.”
supernumerary finalities move the Ouija planchette towards existential ground zero.
what is your final fantasy?
what is the onus of ending?
weightless the world was a fogbound cathedral of English chalk downland; a white tellurian lacuna vanishing in fluid tides of time. superior to the world were towering gelid sarsens of ice; the jettisoned moraines that lie supine in a sarcophagus of quiet propinquity with the omphalos of the world. you had a book of stone, an incunabulum in utero of time. the oeuvre of existence was bivouacked in the fabulist finger of a goddess; and she wrote the saga of humanity’s existence in a stone baetylus.
can a world–never to return–be turned on Pygmalion’s metamorphic axis of persuasion? can it be seduced from the underworld; and coaxed into making a circumstellar pivot? or pushed into the orbit of messianic materialization?
i’ve never seen an irretrievable planet retrograde in a protracted devolution towards inceptive grace. i want to see my stolen star, Venus, accelerate from exnihilo to rebirth. the appreciable traces of starlight can’t reach you at the opaque apex; your evolutionary anterograde towards optimal, final dark is inexorable.
your flight path is an irresistible slime creep towards sidereal summits.
look at the long torque of time, and her interplanetary revolution: she tears her glance from nadir antiquity–the south pole of existence–to look beyond the cloud gods, and what she can tell on her abacus is your infinite altitude within soluble time.
she’s looking at your heights (and by she, I mean Time): you levitate above your glyph like an umlaut; and your umlaut bleeds as if those two zeppelins (mere dots) were divots made by vampire fangs.
and so that is why she, and I, and the whole world, are looking at you. you’re the most beautiful irretrievable thing.
look at the way time turns
to the person who waits on it for
the impossible resurrection
of love’s apotheosis; the minutes are indifferent, and divvy fate with smooth, unhurried hands. i swear, what will be, will be, no matter what we make of it.
when i get what i want from you it will be years too late. what will i do with a message from the graveyard all spun out in type on foxed, delayed telegram paper?
i know what: i’d track down your last known address, run down to your house, and see if we could buy our ragged lives back. upon learning you were really, truly dead, i’d empty the penny jars to purchase your soul. i’d dig up your grave with rivers sluicing down my face. i’d pull out the dismembered limbs of love, and sew them back together; and i’d stir up the dust and years like pale light falling as gingerly as maple leaves;
i’d leave the days of humanity behind in this our moonlit autumn
for another cipher existence, some place out of time’s flight path, and all because you wrote me. do you hear that? i’d do the digging all because i was summoned by a dead girl whose magic i can’t shatter, not even with the crowbar of ceaseless age. and who can tell how the years will pivot, or what life will yield for the sylph’s among us?
i keep you on a planetary carousel: my orrery; the apiary of subsonic minutes is silent when you are caught in the loop of my uroboros. below the submontane strata, the clockwork is broken; the time is not ticking; and the celerity of solar systemic processes slows; the light-years cease; the pilgrimage of planets–their orbit–abides in prayerful repose; and i, clasping the Aquarius clepsydra of all refluent time, hold you frozen at the serac–i’m unable to relent you, my cacoethes, my sin.
when i have you caught in my anfractuous hoop, the cloud buffs roll off the sheer promontory; and there it is–love’s fecundity waiting like an ocean of eights; because, eight is the signifier of eternity. eight never ends.