Your name became in my mouth a woods I could not
enter because one cannot possibly
enter a room one already occupies
Pyrrho wrote nothing. His was a belief in disbelief, in verisimilitude.
I believe in the unbelievable: the ship in the night
that is a ghostship of itself, the fog & smoke that are one.
Remember this when wind says
I wrote nothing
& meant it.
I cannot rush this which must be
said nor change the nature in which it wants to be
said (sic) hard to talk when one has a mouthful of tree in one’s mouth
A ship sails through an ocean of trees. That’s not so farfetched.
Once a teenage boy discovered the body of a great white shark
in a forest. It was dead but not rotten.
How could that be possible? It was summer & humid, yet the fish re-
mained cool & rubbery to the touch. The estranged area enveloping it,
otherwise undisturbed, confessed nothing.
Perhaps I am the woods & cartilage & tooth & the ship of fog
& am all my thoughts of which we are the imagination of
& am gloxinia & tinder & rhizome & the shrinking fossil moon
The idea that Pyrrho was an idea of ideas. Or that centuries exist. (I can’t
comprehend a moment let alone a second). Night I can’t
embrace, the air I breathe I don’t know how.
It was a hoax. That frozen cadaver of an apex predator in the ken. Jab to the solar plexus.
Dynamic & atomic ergodicity.
But for a moment was grandeur, was taffy.
Crush of your taste in my mouth one room submitted to an-
other salted sap signature of your body seabed the sheets
sawdust & pearl wound & release whom pray tell pulverizes whom