Marcella Durand, p.3
FROM TERRA, HERE
Ownership of the sphere is regrettably inscribed,
as are other particulars with diameters of possession,
as you possess me thus far, and I possess you right back,
all soundwaves and light stop in a digital outpouring,
circular then, about the heart, while time breaks
up into numbers and numbers. Oblivious of delineation,
a volume of air, or a mass of water, while we attend
mutual emptiness, a protractor draws a circle about itself.
An inscription drawn on your back, one finger traces
the amount of vertebrae. We foretell the past
through arrangement of ribs, think of others, even as
we walk over objects left on the ground, half-eaten
things like french fries scattered on water…
In a day saturated with physics, rain falls
with the regularity of years spent guessing events,
a glisson, we slide over a sidewalk broken with omens.
Even as we head uptown, and my hand moves
downward with a knowledge of numbers, our
conclusion hints at an equation laid out earlier in
a watery morning. We count birds out the
window while thinking of empty-headed circles.
It’s come round to this: a chance to fill up glasses
with a liquid we wouldn’t know was open-hearted.
Solid to the core, light plays over ceilings, spheres
of light as changeable as air blows through
windows. We spend the morning guessing interiors,
believing eyes are doorways, a chance
to scratch names into glass or into each
other’s vision. Would you believe a rotation
of spheres lay beyond our range
of perception? Or that through irises are colors
of imagination oceans, a chance to read
outside interiors, circles finding their beginning?
Ownership of the sphere is regrettably inscribed,
as are other particulars with diameters of possession,
as you possess me thus far, and I possess you right back,
all soundwaves and light stop in a digital outpouring,
circular then, about the heart, while time breaks
up into numbers and numbers. Oblivious of delineation,
a volume of air, or a mass of water, while we attend
mutual emptiness, a protractor draws a circle about itself.
An inscription drawn on your back, one finger traces
the amount of vertebrae. We foretell the past
through arrangement of ribs, think of others, even as
we walk over objects left on the ground, half-eaten
things like french fries scattered on water…
In a day saturated with physics, rain falls
with the regularity of years spent guessing events,
a glisson, we slide over a sidewalk broken with omens.
Even as we head uptown, and my hand moves
downward with a knowledge of numbers, our
conclusion hints at an equation laid out earlier in
a watery morning. We count birds out the
window while thinking of empty-headed circles.
It’s come round to this: a chance to fill up glasses
with a liquid we wouldn’t know was open-hearted.
Solid to the core, light plays over ceilings, spheres
of light as changeable as air blows through
windows. We spend the morning guessing interiors,
believing eyes are doorways, a chance
to scratch names into glass or into each
other’s vision. Would you believe a rotation
of spheres lay beyond our range
of perception? Or that through irises are colors
of imagination oceans, a chance to read
outside interiors, circles finding their beginning?