“A night left swinging, a night suspended.” -Jean-Louis Bédouin
An aleph of a night and its sea-worthy mother, bright as ether for this intrusive circulationof the watcher's gate singing to its costumes, and she is most agreeable: it is in the prowling,and a coven in the prowling, in the dust, accidental and black as a wedding hung from theapex of a triangle and rendered beautiful as light and the amorous tortures. She crouches toshape those loving glances trickling in by the psyche-driven chisels and ravenous clefts of dark gowns. She is inviolate, to be seen and entered only in the dark. A molecular fabric of igneous illusion glittering in the doorway... but she adores the clarity of your absence. Themagic is in the sudden hesitations,sublime and feverish, and anointed with the candle-making craft of aroused promontories. Agate claws its way out of the light, a nameless kiss.* You enter sleep through the harbor, and become a ghostly presence, luminous veins,mutable and immutable seed cluster, and your eyes an outward quiver of waking in theopposite direction, in the middle of the night secreting transparency like beautiful sighs, orexcited keys inside ancient locks... You are an ambiguous gesture, a harsh and thoughtfulfire... a breath making love to fire in the depths of the earth. Bur she is this way even in theaftermath. A doorway that intervenes. Reflections in progress...*
“The ravens are abrasive like us”
, she spoke in her rapture of fine-tuning, a vast and effortlesssigh, with striations of an interior exhumation, ground up with bone, cinnabar andpremonitions–
“let them eat us after licking their weapons...”
The fierce, indignant tricksterfilled with gold, departing at the speed of light, entering inward...* You part the silkworms of her presence, when she dies for others the way light spinscounterclockwise out of the missing armor, turning on the ledge of consciousness, a virgin-colored gyroscope, bursting in the Far East, on a street of weavers, beneath the moon andother acts of violence, softly moaning, sparkling on the surface and grinding to a halt... foryour hands... a passionate fixation... where the pigments of desire charge up the brightest of nights, in a slender essence, curving in the air of bright germination, beneath the sea for stars,(those nacreous spindles) on the red table of conjuring, in the wolf coat, for the sister of theshe in the door of the jackal casting spells for shadows.