ABSTRACT
Rising again, I fall again, and turning to the sun, I face shadows. Is there something here? Or is this the place where dusty dogs found nothing? I know there are bees near, for I hear them swarming by the desiccated oaks. Perhaps this is the place that angered angels, once in a year without lilacs, again in a year without rain. Cherry-Blossom Savior, drain what little remains of my knowledge of things and my social inclination and my memory of warm and wet and windy springs. I’m tacked to a board like a butterfly. Or perhaps I should say: Preserved in amber like a flea. Or perhaps I should say what I cannot say but I cannot say it because words get stuck in my throat like blood-clots or bugs and my tongue has turned to stone. No matter, we are both alone; so, words are essentially crickets in the night, rasping by porch-light in reflexive pursuit of a vanishing chance of contact. I retract everything I have said. Or I retract nothing, which is more or less the same.
