but then, thereafter

but then, thereafter

This, and for all reasons:

And what of the rest of my life:

In the beginning, creature utters, almost as though belonging to the voice rendering it, remembering its own chronicle of becoming, emerges from mouth of damp clay, salient the way it longs for a name, approaches, contorts body, semblances for limbs before one before another before, groping blind in the gleam of vibrancy, utterly, how the light captures itself upon the surface of verdant leaves, cupped within their curves, borne by their venation, sliding over and off the tip of their blades as dew when shaken the treetops, liquid in the making way, fluid the approach effusing through the periphery, where form sheds itself, and now how the opening upon the face becomes mouth, fissure less injury, less gaping, more orifice, more lips, shuddering as they open to address the one before creature uttering what it has no name for, what it has nothing by means of a means to call out, reach out with breath that which breathes before it, in the blinding, in the shadow of the towering trees, nothing here with which to touch the shivering body prostrate before the riverbank, clutching its knees quivering in the warmth of the sunlight peeking through the canopy before a canopy can be known, before the beginning of understanding, where creature attempts first speech, and what it has to say, when it is trying to say this with a conviction creature can only muster in the light of everything that has yet to be said, history yet to be begun, and how this must happen, everything unfolding as the overhead flora, not seeming to mind how the body before the river remains in silence, gazes persistent upon the flow, not heeding the rush of this continuity, the overlapping curves, bounding here the unanswered question, what is asked.

And what of this: how you are here again, didn’t you use to be, always, and were you not. Pulled apart between this dream and the space before me like eyelids. Light entering, skin made consequent. The dazzle that always precedes lucidity, then sight, then vision. Something here that will not cease to persist. Your body before me. The pocket of air you are inhabiting. The tunnels you breathe through existence as you walk casually through these halls. What caves. You are a mountain. Overlooking the lips of the planet, how the sun lingers upon the softness that distance blurs into the landscape. Smudges of light, caress of warmth. My feet planted in silence, here. And here, something sinking below. I am holding up the sky with arms that were meant to hold you. Here. But now the clouds. Now the stars. Now the weight of a castle of air. Feel it shuddering as the wind blows with the trembling of the stratosphere.

How the joints of my fingers buckle with longing. And how at last this insistence begins to falter. Couldn’t this be our mnemonic device: to traverse through this architecture, measure our pace through these halls of our own devising, trace our hands over faces of brick walls, turning corners, descending staircases, humming to a tune to match the rhythm of our feet meandering through these corridors. How could we fashion chambers of these memories: in this one, perhaps a bottle of shampoo. Then what, casual exchange of hands, thank you, I will be needing this. Take care of yourself. Or in this room, where to keep the plane tickets, and maybe later the shared bills, soon the diplomas. What of the clothes to hang on the coat rack, how will we endure the cold. How to acclimatize to the chill of a morning walk down these windy streets. And what of this imaginary fire. This hearth, the shadows on our walls. What to do with the upholstery, the rugs, the accumulating mail. Do I just memorize this address, or do I fold them together here, nearly in a pile. If I keep getting them, does it mean the castle isn’t made completely of air. What then of its capacity to be breathed. To breathe. Heaving of these walls, patter of boots through specific doors, beside this stairway, sequence of portraits demanding to be looked at. Look at me. Do you remember this one: scenery, bookstore; legs crossed on floor; shoulders like bookends; glasses gleaming in afternoon sun. Observe the tenderness of the composition where light brushes faces. Betrays motion.

Perhaps this could be a burden to bear. Nothing more than the weight of a temple upon clavicle. Then where skin also participates. And hair. Sweat. Pulse. The words whispered which manifest only in the barely perceptible split of lips. Oh, do you see the way they seem to shiver. And the way they return to touch.

And unfolding again: overcoming the abstraction of designed cacophony, how a casual stroll through the garden proceeds: perhaps, suddenly from the mound stepped upon, the inevitable eruption of a million tiny stars, crawling up your bare leg, brushing through the forest of your hair, seeking deeper warmth. Then the embrace of constellations incendiary on your skin, hesitation— and where is home, and what is it, and what to do with what I have lost, if I have lost it. I would understand it if I could.

Perhaps find something else with which to construct this network of tunnels. But then, thereafter. What to do with that.

And what to do with aftermaths. Instead of speaking, continual approach. Would you listen to my hands. Would there be home to run to then. Would there be anything more to say, if I reached down with my fingers toward the tangle of your head. If I listened to the gurgle of the river before us. Placed my hand here, turned my body before you can turn to me. My back against yours, the forest before. Something without form emerging from the darkness, breathing. Animate silence. All the ways there would be to fill it. To not.

as though perhaps there could still be more to believe somehow to be said: in an alternate way of ending look, where the narrative this story: a sharp turn rests its head, what words soft of gaze, drawing back it is whispering, what curve of shoulder, where consequence of trembling ear, aching bleeds from refusal instead in its pledge to hear of hesitation— everything, press nothing more to be said itself against the wall of what comes after, spine curved of the hollow into adjacent spine, ribs garden of your chest, vibrant like interlocked fingers, receding with blossom, back, breaths exchanged as urgent with glint of dew, with affection, warmths glaring with sun leaning into each other seeming to shiver as to disclose a secret

But what of the rest of my life.