Thursday, September 6, 2018

Philomène’s Filaments

When Philomène began to grow her flowing filaments –
spewing tendrils which connected to the rest of everything –
inclined themselves immediately to whatever they could reach –
entwined with nothing that had not appeared to wait for them –
and everything appeared to wait for them –
she understood she’d breached a gap she’d never known about –
and that we all unconsciously were leaping over all the time.
As if surrounded by an orange-crimson mirror, she could see
herself align with everything she now could see around her –
what the deities are made of, dine on, pass to all
who also see – the rare hors d’oeuvres of predilections all of us
experience but none of us know how to say – none of us, that is,
except the prescient Philomène, as she began to witness all
the filaments she constantly sent out – and that we
send out, too – and which she found the words for, but can’t say
to me or you. We aren’t ready yet, we wouldn’t know what we
were hearing, couldn’t yet make out the sky she saw, so gloriously
fire-yellow-red. We can’t begin to take that in. We aren’t dead.


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