Little Boy speaks to the sun
as the nation's tongue closes
into a word: car, sky… Or
a cancerous heart. Little Boy
has rearranged his garden, his tantrums have ended,
he’s returned branches, leaves, flowers in tact. Each branch sings
signs of branches, branches of signs…
The lecturer enters the fresh garden.
He overhears Little Boy singing:
O, sun, super sun, sun…
I, walking through these wooded words, hear
a tree-like silence. I greet it. Little Boy, push me deeper
into the sun. A silence like the skin of a mechanical
apple. Its skin is the sound of a green bell with no core.
The lecturer whispers:
auto correct, auto correct
the sun can predict nothing but black: black years,
black branches, black silence, black horses
shackled at black ankles. Writhing across
wooded words, greeting a tree-like silence,
in refrain of disappearance. Record all; elide eyes
into the thing that enters the forehead: a wild cloud
that obscures the poem, activates the sky. Little
Boy speaks to the sun, the sun listens. It is no node; it turns.
Little Boy asks: How can you consume everything
while I’ve only just begun? Datawater falls, it pours:
This is how names are lost. This is how consensus forms.
This how consensus breaks. The sun is shorthand for
so many achievements in silence, for the consumption
of so much sight. How can I build this ladder and push deeper
into a territory no human can enter? Your lover is waking up.
Each ray: guided to a silent goal. Each ray: silverlined with an appropriate silence.
Ashen arm, ashen branches,
Sun, super sun, sun.