.
.
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.
.
.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment