The stars align between antagonists. Bones tremble and bury ancient sorrows, ancient births. The liquid fire of breath and mottled coals—unloneliness— curse campanile bells. Green leaves crack from crumbled earth, the bud of an anemone, the piston of a tulip, the starlight of a dog. This summer burned down last night and whited out a gaseous planet turned on its hip. A limb climbs out, another one, a clawing hand, two feet that kick. Where is the bright damage that makes a forest into a plane? It’s in the stars; it’s in the kaleidoscope’s pops and clicks; it’s coming out of groaning concrete, taking its first breath.
Let us unloose the knives, discard the sheaths, uncross the limbs that broke upon impact. Let us reknit and refold the shaken dance into a plume of dust. Let us fold and watch a blasted tree grow new skin while gilded limbs encase and shimmy up. Here, the monster offers life for a box of tiger lilies, flaming synecdoche that traverses scales of deadly melodies. There, gargoyle wings are overgrown with columbine, magenta pink and white. Let us nose downward. Let us emasculate ourselves. Let the monster’s limbs be unbreathed, unbroken, unsung.