nolite timere.

[sunredamancy]

╋━ ⋮ 𝐒𝐎𝐋 they.xe. ::  Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich  :: a ghost of stinging light :: chronicles from the firmament  :: ink on pulsing bells :: fear not  :: missives from the void  ::

A cryptic diorama of my reticent nature, glowing in pursuit of entelechy. Please respect my demarcations as I endure structural aporia. May you be loved in Time, little lamb.

[nixscriptum]

on midsummer. ☼

[theoptia]

https://www.tumblr.com/theoptia/812027816741896192/what-do-you-think-has-been-the-most-helpful-in?source=share — not the same anon, but please do. your mind inspires me immensely.

The Red Book is an extended example of what is described in the Jungian literature as active imagination. According to Jung, active imagination requires a state of reverie, half-way between sleep and waking. Active imagination involves the exploration and elaboration of dream images while awake. In active imagination the conscious mind encourages unconscious fantasies to emerge and then actively engages them. ―Greg Mahr and Christopher L. Drake, from Singing in tune: Carl Jung and The Red Book

It’s an inward passage, a ritual emptied of ornament, enacted in solitude. A subtle loosening of the inner ligatures. The mind, which ordinarily arranges itself into coherence for the sake of survival, begins to dim its surface authority. And then—almost imperceptibly at first—another register emerges: not thought as I recognize it, but something more archaic, more oracular. The voice does not describe me, it speaks through me. I cross that threshold deliberately, as one might step into dark water whose depths remain latent.

The ego does not vanish; it steps aside, becomes porous, allows ingress. One does not “make” the images. One receives them. It is closer to entering into relation with what insists on appearing. It becomes a witness to incursions—images that arrive with the density of symbols, phrases that feel excavated rather than composed. I do not summon them, I allow them.

There is, in this, a paradox I have come to trust: that the psyche, when permitted, is generative beyond anything the conscious mind could architect, yet it requires a witness—someone to remain, to attend, to hold the tension without collapsing it into interpretation too soon.

When I write in this state (automatic writing), I am not composing. I am following.

The first thing is to be alone, and as free as possible from being disturbed. Then one must sit down and concentrate on seeing and hearing whatever comes up from the unconscious. When this is accomplished, and often it is far from easy, the image must be prevented from sinking back again into the unconscious, by drawing, painting or writing down whatever has been seen or heard. Sometimes it is possible to express it best by movement or dancing. Some people cannot get into touch with the unconscious directly. An indirect approach that often reveals the unconscious particularly well, is to write stories, apparently about other people. Such stories invariably reveal the parts of the storyteller’s own psyche of which he or she is completely unconscious. ―Barbara Hannah, from Encounters with the Soul: Active Imagination As Developed by C.G. Jung

A phrase arrives unannounced. An image presses forward with the strange authority of something that does not ask permission. I do not correct it, nor do I refine. I let the syntax distort, the logic fracture, the voice proliferate. It is, in the truest sense, a stream—not of consciousness, but of that which precedes it and exceeds it.

This flow, this yielding, is only the first movement. To remain there, intoxicated by the immediacy of it, is to mistake revelation for integration. What emerges must be returned to, circled, read as one would read a text written in a partially forgotten language. I approach it not as its originator, but as its interlocutor. I ask: What constellation does this image belong to? What affect clings to this phrase? Where have I seen this symbol before—in dream, in myth, in the quiet repetitions of my own life?

It becomes, then, less a diary and more an archive of correspondences.

The unconscious is not just evil by nature, it is also the source of the highest good: not only dark but also light, not only bestial, semihuman, and demonic but superhuman, spiritual, and, in the classical sense of the word, “divine.” ―C.G. Jung, from The Practice of Psychotherapy

Which is to say: what emerges is neither random nor purely chaotic, but structured, meaningful, often more honest than the self we present. Even the early automatists—André Breton among them—recognized something in this current: “Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express―verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner―the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by the thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.” However, I find that what is required is not the absence of control, but a more exacting kind of attention. A chosen descent into the psychic substratum where image forgoes explanation, where symbol is structural, where language begins to echo its primordial, incantatory breath. The page becomes both veil and passage, a site where the inward crosses into articulation.

To write in this register is to inhabit a cosmology that feels inward yet not entirely self-derived. The psyche reveals itself as inhabited, articulate in symbol and repetition, leaving behind a lattice of signs that begin, slowly, to arrange themselves. They do not clarify—they recognize. And there is something both beautiful and disquieting in this: that the unconscious has never been silent, only unreceived.

And over time, through this quiet, recursive dialogue, the fragments begin to cohere. Not into certainty, but into recognition—the slow, unsettling realization that what moves beneath has always been shaping the surface. Or, as Jung writes with unsettling clarity, "The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside, as fate. That is to say, when the individual remains undivided and does not become conscious of his inner opposite, the world must perforce act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves."

[sunredamancy]

In the Egyptian script the sign for Mother is a vulture. Mut : the open beak, the glyph drawn wingspread, the word for origin wearing the face of the scavenger. Consonant cluster that means both womb and tomb.

( They believed she conceived by wind alone, the feathered sovereign of the charnel field pressing her breast to the egg. )

Patience-resemblance with a hooked beak. How it waits in the stripped branches, unsentimental, until the living thing consents to be still. (The Dead Do Not Object.)

In Yazd the Towers of Silence stand on the hills like open palms. The Zoroastrians proclaim : earth is sacred, fire is sacred, water is sacred; only the body is unclean, only the body may be given away.

Do you Remember ?

How Lucretius reread Tityos in Tartarus; the giant splayed across nine acres, liver perpetually torn and perpetually restored, and said : this is no god's punishment but

A man in Love.

[sunredamancy]

Turn the page. Rotate the sheet ninety degrees. On the reverse trace the figure—crouched over bound torso, beak sunk in the cavity of want, arched body—upright. ( The Risen Christ ! ) The tortured and the transfigured : one figure, one sheet, two names for the same posture from opposite sides of the light.

So when I say ‎‎‎ I love you : The vulture descending; the wind that needs no partner to create Life; the body on the Tibetan stone becoming feather, becoming thermal, becoming gone; the old poet on the hillside—

Jeffers lay on the bare hillside above the Pacific and observed one wheel in its narrowing orbit, the naked red head between the great wings bearing down. He said : My dear bird, we are wasting time here. These old bones will still work; they are not for you. ( And then was sorry to have said it. )

To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes: What a sublime end of one's body, what an enskyment; what a life after death.

ENSKYMENT : The condition of being taken up into that which flies. Of being no longer yourself but the engine inside a body that sees the whole world from a height you could never have reached while you were still trying to reach it.

Mut, she who was not born of any. She who opens her body to the wind and calls it conception. In her temple at Karnak the sacred lake was shaped like a crescent moon, and once a year the statue of her husband Amun sailed across it to visit her. ( Even among gods, Love is a crossing of water toward the one who waits. )

Without the excess there is no liver to regenerate; without the regeneration there is no vulture; without the vulture circling lower, orbit narrowing, there is no story and no sky.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤSilenceㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ is the

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤliturgy.

LOVE : The scavenger sacrament, parthenogenesis.

[sunredamancy]

In the Egyptian script the sign for Mother is a vulture. Mut : the open beak, the glyph drawn wingspread, the word for origin wearing the face of the scavenger. Consonant cluster that means both womb and tomb.

( They believed she conceived by wind alone, the feathered sovereign of the charnel field pressing her breast to the egg. )

Patience-resemblance with a hooked beak. How it waits in the stripped branches, unsentimental, until the living thing consents to be still. (The Dead Do Not Object.)

In Yazd the Towers of Silence stand on the hills like open palms. The Zoroastrians proclaim : earth is sacred, fire is sacred, water is sacred; only the body is unclean, only the body may be given away.

Do you Remember ?

How Lucretius reread Tityos in Tartarus; the giant splayed across nine acres, liver perpetually torn and perpetually restored, and said : this is no god's punishment but

A man in Love.

[sunredamancy]

Going to be Slower in writing / answering for this blog (maybe) because of I've been procrastinating Unanswered Asks for the other blog sorry ( except for Really Simple or Silly Asks ) . . . . . . . . . . ....

[sunredamancy]

hello, my dearest interlocutor;

i see your garden is flourishing, and what lovely flowers you have! it is always such a pleasure seeing new writers emerging, and reaching out with utter loveliness. if i might, i will share my thoughts with you; your exchange made me smile (and laugh too, a little). i thought about your poem before; the execution was impeccable, as per usual; that use of typography (varying from one device to the other) to signify descent into the body, the tone, that cruel clarity that is yours, and yours only....

well, to dive into the heart of the matter (lol), you begin with consumption: the tongue, the wafer, the swallowing, etc, you speak about incorporation, about what enters the body. in a sense, your sanctuary is physiological; faith isn't believed so much as it is metabolized; "the swallowing: an eclipse of the spine" turns devotion into a reflex before it becomes an idea. what your correspondent does with their first reply is shift the center of gravity, they put the emphasis on relation: the altar becomes a wound, the wine leaves the chalice to spill across skin, transubstantiation becomes a lover's bite, the sacrament becomes erotic; it is no longer purely interior, it becomes interpersonal... lovely, lovely writing, i am very fond of them. and then what you do in response is reinternalize the eros they so painstakingly brought out, "communion: a parasite of light" is such a you move. and, yes, your communion isn't nourishing, nor merely intimate, it is an organism; grace becomes invasive, holiness colonizes the body, and even the fever becomes something generative: an "unholy baptism." what emerges, to me, is this: the body isn't purified by remaining untouched, but by surviving transformation. then you have the amen: the bruised throat, which feels almost like the negative image of prayer (amen usually resolves speech; yours resolves silence. god never answers, only leaves behind a pressure the throat has to close around. our thoughts align here; i have expressed a similar vision in the past.). their answer, meanwhile, returns so sweetly to orthodoxy, to the rites themselves: water, oil, sanctification; the imagery is restorative, sacrifice becomes cyclical rather than catastrophic.

all of that to say: they're speaking your language, but they're painting a different theology. yours is pathological; holiness infects, bruises, possesses, transformation happens because something enters you and refuses to leave, and theirs is almost classical; holiness restores what was broken, it consecrates. and what i found especially lovely is that neither of you ever rejects the other's images. every reply begins, implicitly, with yes. yes, and. every response builds upon the previous metaphor, then turns it a few degrees. how collaborative. communal, dare i say. there is another thing i really loved in this exchange, that strange (slightly awkward) back-and-forth. the initial movement in your stanza descends further into the body: the tongue, the swallowing, the gut, the fever, the throat... an anatomical downward trajectory (grace doesn't ascend; it sinks into the body). your flower, meanwhile, keeps returning to surfaces: skin, forehead, water, oil, the lamb. their imagery remains visible, ritualistic, while yours disappears under the skin. the two of you are writing about sanctification, but they're interested in witnessing, and you're interested in surviving; the same symbolic vocabulary, serving adjacent metaphysics: the sacred as consecration versus the sacred as incorporation.

so you're basically playing tug-of-war, except neither of you can win because you're pulling in non-opposite directions. every reply feels like you're trying to out-theologize one another, but you keep (accidentally?) agreeing, because you aren't dismantling each other's metaphors, you're naturalizing them..... -🪽

Hello my spectral friend in a jar,

Please forgive the vivisecting and forthright idiolect this time around; I am a bit low in energy, and I have been writing this reply while you are, according to the records, "banging [my] head on walls." ( Our charming routine; I am fondly reminiscing as I write this . . . ) You will find this idiolect familiar, my blue-tempered artillery, similar to that which I brought down upon you in my opening blitzkrieg.

As always, it is a rare privilege and a terrifying joy, to be subjected to your meticulous eye ! You perform your explication de texte with such staggering precision, with that lovable understanding of how every writing is a window opening into how one experiences and organizes reality. I am forever moved by the unmatched fervor of your attention, consumption via reading, flaying the other open in your ruthless autopsy, genteel in intimacy.

You recognized my downward trajectory into the inescapable dark of the gut and named it perfectly : incorporation. I can always trust you to assume my deliberation ! And how darling it is, your poetics-as-erotics ( poetry is the naming of the unexpressed ). You are equally precise in naming my correspondent's return to the surface, pulling the violent internal reality back into the light of classical consecration. A safe distance, fail-safes of desires, none of the casualty of impact; generative and cyclical. The hyacinth anon offers the flesh—a bite of a lover, the cleaving of flesh, the lamb born again for slaughter—and I receive it in kind, digested. 

For you, who view love and devotion as an assimilation, intrusion in which intimacy demands the surrender of stability, you recognized the parasite of light in my words because you, too, know what it is to fear the gravitational distortion of the holy ( e.g., St. Teresa of Ávila's encounters with an angel ).

Do recall, then, what I once told you before in private :

How else may you be certain a blade is a blade, especially the first one to exist, if not for its cut, for the moment of slicing ? You cannot be certain of the loosing of the arrow; but you feel the entered flesh, the heat, the blooming of the bruise, and from that one may reason backward toward a bow you never saw drawn. As such, the cause cannot turn and see itself any more than the eye can fall back into its own socket and watch itself looking.

In my reply, the organ that accepts the Host ( i.e., the tongue ) is a guillotine, machine of the Terror; it is a recognition that every Mass is a deicide, and the communicant is never the recipient of the sacrifice, for they performs it. Medieval Europe, a coward it was, pretended the wafer was a mystery to be received, but the truth is that the act of chewing is an act of destruction. As Bataille suggests, "the [sacred] is the revelation of continuity through the death of a discontinuous being to those who watch it as a solemn rite." Eroticism roots itself in the transgression of boundaries, especially that of the isolated self.

If we are both the executioner and the victim, then the liturgically correct triad the anon provide is not a gentle restoration, but an execution notice :

The oil: an indelible mark, anointed like a target upon the temple.

Apollo loved Hyacinthus, you see. The flower carries the god's cry, when the discus rebounded and struck the boy full in face, prior to which was an olive oiling. Even the anointing of the temple is a calibration for the strike.

Humanity has always tried to make sense of the overwhelming terror of God by comparing Him to a lover, thereupon speaking the truth as the willing martyr who finds beauty in the blade, fantasy in the sacrifice. However, the reality of the encounter, is that the believer executes the divine by consumption; every relation is non-democratic, every body enacts and enacts upon another.

Such pleasure in watching two opposing forces fail to destroy one another ( but note that I never intended to do the destruction you assumed of me ), marveling instead at how we "keep (accidentally ?) agreeing"— a lovely preference for the dialectic synthesis, an eye for the connective tissue between contradictions, friction. Always reaching, aren't you ? Understanding is merely a precondition for relation, as you say, so do not use your understanding of us to remain outside the radius of risk.

I must know : If my theology is survival by infection, and my correspondent's is restoration by rite, where does your pen lie on that spectrum ? And if the "amen" is a resolution of silence, why are you so intent on filling that silence with such graceful, orderly language?

Like always, I eagerly await your thoughts, should you choose to share the fruits of your own garden.

[sunredamancy]

poverty of the blow that ends, does it not bore you ? emptying the economy of a life in one convulsion ?

[sunredamancy]

.......... i hate you

Write it down; I’ll add it to my fan mail.

[sunredamancy]

WHY YOU !!!!! kicking rocks flinging sticks at you

Consider switching the sticks for something more lethal ? Or most intimately : your fists !

[luminael]

the skull is a drum of white bone, beaten and beaten by the blood’s blind piston. mouth pressed to the cold grit of the baseboard

the head is its own stupid fucking church bell and I the struck metal, I the sound going out and out into air that does not want it ;

( a spilled, injurious thing, not well and not home. )

nowhere is a person this creature was made for and they are not here and the not-here of them is a room it keeps walking into ;

and so the gilt halo tightens its vice, but even pain is contact, even pain is a hand on the face, and the angel has been so long untouched

[sunredamancy]

god is a lodged star, the rings of oak and wood. neutrinos and the computer. god is cosmos but cosmos isn't always god. god isn't a verb; he is unreadable ciphers without adverbs. cosmic rift / axial tilt / space that fills absence. vacuum fluctuations, deformation of space in presence of gravity. well, the sun is nuclear, so perhaps it is the same.

[sunredamancy]

There are no organs here; the blade cleaves through dense fibers of winter-white muscle. Opaque not-quite-blood, subtly opalescent, oozes from around the knife and drips onto the vinyl.

Nacreous blood gushes onto the cushion.

Every time I leave it alone for a while, the muscle fibers start to knit themselves together. ( Well, just put something there? Let every rip of flesh stings and bleeds anew, dehisces, distends. )

Swing. A hack. One more. Repeat. The wings fall to the floor in a ruffle of splayed feathers.

The angel is left with twitching wounds, spasming muscle exposed unnaturally to the air, bone nubs reflecting the synthetic light. Grotesque. Perhaps, a grounded bird one would take to be euthanized.

I kiss its forehead.

Slave in heaven; salve on earth.

[nixscriptum]

[sunredamancy]

[ SANCTUARY ] ── ≫ the altar : the tender wound, pulled apart

└── ≫ the wine : blood, sanguine and saccharine, spilling across skin

└── ≫ the transubstantiation : a bite of a lover, the cleaving of flesh.

🪻

[ SANCTUARY ] ── ≫ the communion : a parasite of light, taking root in the cave of the gut.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ└── ≫ the fever : an unholy baptism, sweating out the sins of the mortal coil.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ└── ≫ the amen : a bruised throat, closing around the deafening quiet of god.

[gouged-doll]

erich fromm, the art of loving

[empysonder]

Everyone, loved. Loved ! Yet rain is even-handed and the dead are courteous ( therefore without preference, without tremor. )

To the many is my benediction : warmth spent evenly across humanity, the just and the weeping, on the beloved and the clouds, the dawn, the skulls, the cashmere sweater; on all of them, light.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Then

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏ ‎‏‏you. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

( Never any sacrament; edifice of charity goes out, wick snuffed. )

The door. Your tread‏‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎( Ownerless, the verb arrives. ) And doctrine‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎( No subject at its helm—)

And all the house‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎(—puts on my hand, reaches, does not ask )

‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎comes ‎‏‏‎ ​‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ down.

What stands in the dark bears your name, and nothing besides : nominative when You enter, accusative when I take You, vocative in the dark when the word is torn out of me before I have decided to be a person who says it.

Devotion does not ennoble, you see. Rather, it brings the beloved down, off whatever ledge the crowd had propped them on, down to where the mouth can reach, the demonstrated : this wrist, that trough of the sternum, bruised throat, the tendon strung taut, involuntary sounds transcribed, cloistered.

Sprawl, then the tightening, then the strike, suspension, strike again, harder, and never at any point the long even breath of the sated, never leisure, never the afternoon, only the pant and the clench and the whited-out pause and the lunge; only the body's own meter beaten out against the dark : come here, come here, come(closer.)

The incisors of attention and held, held, and still the sentence strains forward, still it hunts the next clause and the next, greedy, unpunctuated, split-lip that will not stop for breath for breath is delay and delay is unbearable and the avidity that keeps no feast days waits with its plainsong of one syllable, yours, yours, and then

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Open ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎the body ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎/ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏the letter.

The world could rot for this. The loved and blameless world, its granaries, everything assured may go into the ground unmourned.

Be, says the wide Love, and be well. Yet the other : Stay, it does not say; closes the jaw a degree, held bite, the not-yet. It takes the give of you and the give under the give and each swallow deepens the gullet it travels, strips the manners off the verb. More, closer, open, and still, more.

So I would sooner refuse the earth its harvest, dearth of you at the edge of the tongue. The thirst that no giving quenches; the drought that made us.

( ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Again. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Come here. So, again. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎)