she sinks into the water as her pale suggestion echoes outward on the edge of the ripples
the stars realign quickly on the surface of the pond as if the evening had not been disturbed by her body, even for a moment
commentary:
an image on the surface, a woman's body piercing through it only to be swallowed up by the order of things
should her act engrave a story on the water or is it better to pass through the wind like a bird leaving no trace of ever having been here
Part Three
sympathetic magic
America, forgive this apostrophe, I'm channeling Whitman— he says his atoms are rushing into the veins of the new revolution, he's assimilating into phosphor dots, trying to form a sincere face, he's easing through our labyrinth with a new heart, pulsing in the cursors in a remote chatbox on the eve of the apocalypse— the future is pixellating into his beard, he is singing:
a million Trojan horses are circling the skies— beware the dark dreams spinning above you
St. Catherine's head