having stood to disillumine,
it sinks back, at once,
the meek darkness emptying
into ovarian stars
the Authentic, watch as it
straightens in paradoxical disarray
all the years of its radial
undoings, calming itself like mosses
in loose-knit sweaters of spirals
across a space of stripped exteriors
what happens is as event,
continents meeting constellations
in a single eye,
smelling with its stretched nose
the mirrored spout of a shower
in a chance moment of reversal,
that dust in recession, coal
that disappears over rememberance . . .
its face has no eyes like ours,
bordered by worry’s deckle,
winter-stubbled as leftover stalks in fields,
yet it feels the cool spring wind
This is Life . . .
the lake, its me-ness,
gleaming solid while
creaturely slicings abrade the air . . .
does it want, then, its travels
to warmth, where holiness
in a different key
hears those softest symbols
like red shoes skipping against black sands
in plaits of wending mutations?
it lifts, deathless, along the stones,
chasing glass cones
that tumble along . . .
strange, the normal touching
that tones its torso with twists,
febrile and fanatical for truth
that only comes with delinquent vibrations
but which limb of mountain cold
is the muse that homes its howl?
chaos belongs to the living,
contrived in being’s depth, to mystery
below surfaces, achenes
sent off as fertile interceptions
beyond the shake of daysturn
and then . . .
a breath, whose back cannot flake
in conformity, in continuity
with forever’s reassembly, allowing
that glance of exuberance
against the sunburn of our passive silence
(c) J. Celan Smith