amputation. Above the knee. You r so cold. Winter light moves up your neck to yr lips. For the duration of this song to u mother the cold light moves from yr lips to yr new permanently shut eyes. You can’t rave any more, slapping fury over the countdown of minutes, u can’t force yr quip in. The hills where the sun’s heading maintain their dead rest. No wind. No rain. The new wrong temps in- filtrate the too-dry grove, each stiffly curling silvery leaf—all up the slopes. All gleams momentarily. Each weed at the foot adds its quick rill of shimmering. Then off it goes. The in- candescent touches it, then off it goes. All afternoon day will do this. Touching, taking each thing up—no acceleration. Dry. Cold. Here mother is when it reaches yr eyes, the instant when it covers yr lids, curved to catch all brilliance, nothing wasted, carved, firm, while whatever is behind them, mind-light, goes. Maybe it will rain again the glittering says, but until then I will imitate the sheen of nourishment, of plenty, it says, I will be yr water, yr rivulet of likewater—while I, I, out here, bless you with this gorgeous uselessness mother, this turning of the planet onto yr eyes that refuse the visible now & ever again…. We kept u as long as we cld whole. I have no idea what this realm is but it is ours, and as long as u are stuck in appearance I wish for the wind-glitter to come each day once to where you lie and wash you clean. Losing information yr gleaming shut lids light the end of the whole of this day again. Let it happen again.
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