I want to write an
honest sentence, and then I want to revise it. Not to put it in a
vise and clamp it down, but place it in a different light. I saw a
sea urchin shell on a rock wall, spines spilling around it. Each a
black wand, at one end a white plug that sat in the skeleton's ball
and socket. The philosopher saw an octopus dying, her body parts
dissolving in sea water. Death is one such revision. So is breath as
it runs its tunnel. Describe the feeling in your chest, the
brightness in your spine, and I will say it back. “We're all going
to die,” Marthe said, “and no one will remember us. That's ok.”
The urchin is a lantern: its top is anus, and its bottom mouth. The
entire body might make a compound eye. I see it through a chain link
fence, and the mechanical waterfall beyond. A blaze of purple shows
in my photograph.
--30 August 2018
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