Monday, July 15, 2019
who planted the seed in the page that the flower
who sowed in the blank furrow the seed
            that the flower’s green stem in black ink 
                        [God’s calligraphy???]
            draws up itself from nothing into nothing
and blooms
            on each petal as on a flame
                        it burns white when burning light
                        (as the moon burns the night, 
                                    or once the moon did
                               as once the moon burned the night
and the night drew away)
            [there is no depth, just a surface 
                         to get lost in???] [& the absurd
     nostalgia that my hand like a leaf could learn
                    to eat the sun???] then day, daylight
the corpse in the carefully tended plot
            has sprouted into another thought
                          & when the flower blooms every petal is a flame
                          & a man sits inside the flames
                          & the thin stem holds the burden up
                          & the man is reading a book he is also writing
                          & the book is made of stone
                          & the man has a beard so long it touches the stone
and I’ve been looking for that man, wanting
            to ask him a question I found
            in me under the fluorescent buzz
                        of the archive where I met him 
                                    a page splayed 
                                    open in the library’s display
it’s hard to connect nothing with nothing 
I’ve heard some rumors about the sun
Monday, July 15, 2019