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
stretches out—
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 plume—
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
finds momentary
balance 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.
asha
