THE HOWLING TABLE

She plays blood with the moon’s golden salamander, then plays flesh and finally dream, before passing backwards through myth and evolution…

In the spyglass of your eerie listening threads, you might find your shadow planted like a ghost, in the center of a brightly spinning table…. and measured by purring triangles of darkness.

You sleep through her storms, with your heart of rain and your mind of wind, your cognition of lightning and pathology of lava, or ice, depending upon the phases of the moon, your bones of aurora and memory of ash, flesh of stars and blood of lunar dust. You dream beside yourself, watching, shedding your skin …

She knows you, and by her antlers she touches you, etching the layers of your light with her shadow of incestuous jellyfish. She eats you, and you come to birth in the milkweed pods, like a torch out of cabalistic breath.

Your history congeals in the lost-wax language of a many dimensional fluid, more mirror than river, less arc than scythe and you sign with your X when it grafts human fire onto the feral wheat…

You are balanced between twin spoons, twin thoughts and poured into the horizon of a splendid revolt against all that does not glow with the irony of your place among so many precious stones.

Spores of light…

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