34
A shipwrecked light. Opening your cracked lips still wider, you call in
the rusty-haired ocean. Even as you ride into the city of devotion
composed only of ephemera and horizon, on the breath of a black horse
in January. Your heart crushed upon the seven seas, space torn apart at
once as the fabric of water. A person now is a breach of the moment —
lacking that which responds, is nothing but a yonder shadow. But look —
O twisted edge of the shipwrecked light. This sight of the tendons in
your heel, with grains of sand on them, beginning to withstand the pale
constriction of your leaps. Amidst the rising scent of grass, of
thrashing, of disdain.
43
The spider is genius. The celerity which moves — leading the air mass —
the atmosphere level that falls higher than the clouds connecting the
seasons. The spider is genius. The brilliance descending
omnidirectionally is not a gravity-evading parachute, but striates the
entire sky, guiding drops of light towards the ground. And it just
lowers itself down along the way. How can there be such transparent
bones — bones that flood over, even as they break. And plus he is a
seed. With endurance and imagination as nourishment, the scheme is
rather null. Sorcery is rather null. A light-handed evil which admits
no glory, not even your own. The spider is simply genius.
100
Summoning up my last bit of energy, I shall give a gift to your pale
doorway. So that it might become your first bit of food before heading
over to the other eye. Whirling tides that are sealed in. And the sun
with new bandages. Drupes with wisdom.
written by Takashi Hiraide
translated from Japanese by Sawako Nakayasu
published by Circumference
photo by Kate Mellersh via Flickr
Robin Reagler 