Somewhere nearby a fly is the last
friendly voice of earth where, with
broken pieces glinting everywhere and
unbraided fire hair, the literal eye shuts
lured beyond by what cannot be seen
what has not begun
what cannot be imagined
takes shape under my feet
the bloody red sulfuric
sweaty birth of future worlds.
I never wanted to return, she says,
never wanted to leave the white plum
the stinging rain. But we come back
from the boiling point of hurricanes. We
walk back together over burnished glass,
Anna Sadhorse from the fire-eating sea
and me, back past tiny ferns busy in their
grottoes digesting the volcano within the thin
moist shadows caught in the upheaval’s crust.
It has never been so fine, here
where the foot does the thinking
finding momentary ground before
the body falls again forward
into unforeseeable circumstance.
Pick any thread from the loom of chaos,
she whispers. The wildest will do.
It is our job making sense of nothing.