Ghost Pull Moon

Grief is a traveling. You pull the world through a hole in your heart to transform it. This traveling stems from a disunion, a failure to tolerate the landscape. If you have been party to grief you have been moved. The girl is stuck in a cave underground. She means to cut the wall. She writes because her fingers are covered in skin and she has only so much blood in her body. She threads escape through alteration. The gradual metabolism of ice floes as one world is left and another entered. Grief breaks marble. Her train stopped only at those pieces sanctified by grief. Without a transfiguration you are simply not on the map. If you can’t understand the cruel world makes people cruel you might as well not love. We spoke in a phone booth in the forest. Most of the trees were on fire. I would have liked to talk longer. My sweet body started burning a little at a time. Firemen connected to waterways of blood. I woke up and the bed was soaked. Every time he came to the table I would rub my thighs. One likes one likes one likes to be under control. But mucous made the ground slippery. She was ready to carve me. I want to think migration is always toward a greater complexity. Still I am a host for dead friends. I try to replicate what I heard in the valley. Empty I become his flute. The wanderer has been loved by exile, she is soft and full of holes. The wanderer is a solvent upon walls. She faces the womb. She is pulled from behind. The womb becomes smaller. She steps into the desert carpet bag in hand and holds her hat with her hand to preserve it from the passing wind. This is what they mean by queer. Within the freedom of desolation an arroyo. The bed gave water. It was the touch of Eurydice that made Orpheus turn back. But for her warm hand, he would have been a perfect morgue. Orpheus could not but turn back. The dogs are coming very fast and very loud. A hot line through the ice. Her tenderness split the skin. Do not blame him for doing what the hungry do. Comfort is god in the desert. Orpheus turned toward the black canal. And a song sprang from his shoulder. Comfort ran toward what it knew. The dogs are coming very fast and very loud. Don’t give up. We are coming for you. A heartbeat chasing a pulse in the earth. Don’t give up. We are coming for you. Very fast and very loud. Searching… searching… Very fast and very loud. Diving toward the ball. Until hunger drones in the ear. Sweet ravenous valley. I am tired. A tendency to persist against the unclaimed. Young girls tell this story with their mouths of silence. An absence gently visits the stone. You can find the place by touch. A cold depression that governs the grid. And finds wayfaring wanderers.