I was recently reminded that a planet is a wanderer. “Is” somewaylike making the berry middle of the turnover. Planet.
Venus said once to me, in a bus hoarse creak, “sorry for the moon over bad hotels” & perhaps I thought, “good for you.” But it’s become obvious to me since then that what she really wanted to say was “I love you,” only this is a hard thing to mean & say simultaneously.
I’m sorry I am as I am: Planet.
Mars frumped. Has been frumpy. Like some middle-aged detective in a murder mystery in Iceland or Denmark. Lens flares & open landscapes half-palmed-over with ice-white stones. Wondering the spit of self. His daughter probably has issues with him. Whose mother no longer worries in the pillow–found her own way without him. There is only the wandering mystery to sooth. & a windshield under electronic drones. The almostfreeze beading by the slow wiper windshield. Lingering red light.
A wink that doesn’t mean to wink.
My grandfather’s clock was left on Crete in a bloated oak crate in the sun. So I don’t know what time it is, nor how we get from here to Rome to home (to Florence I think by Elephant wing). Still, when there is chiming, we delight in the design. All the many molten hearts of Italy, an ember to the amber of our planet names (poets, all on island time, remember the long tick of the bubble in Boulder, & how do we find ourselves in America? We wander!
A shame if not to also wonder).
Yes there are long oceans between the flesh & what beats in it. Water the color of the warring planet. Just one of your bloodcells wanders further in a day than you will in a year, wanders further in a year than you will in your lifetime, further in your lifeline than Mars would dare dream. Within is the greatest drift of
heaven & earth & human.
I don’t mind the backward slide of Mercury. But I love the apeswing vine chide on the channels’ for-always-ness of nightlights in their mumbles.
It’s true: water just comes right out of the sky & wets us for no good reason, but don’t worry, Neptune governs the clouds with a dry writ. “I shall be in a trench,” he whispers, with the bulb-based tooth-fish, pretending.
Water for the hair on my head today. Water for the blue blood of a gas giant. One year is a single beat of the big fat heart of the sun. Here we are to stay. At home. Resting. Still. (This is how we know we are really travelling about at an infinity of directions at once, at all velocities possible: that we imagine there is a stillness & covet it’s return to our beings. A womb, of course, is a relative thing.)
I have been to a body space, now, ful, & what a good bello-ing song. Of course! It’s our dogs that dig for us. & of course they don’t quite know it’s for us. Bury whatever seems most ours for us. A simple urgency to keep the thing safe. Why so West? I could ask you. But, then, when I ask myself, Why Portugal? Why Lisbon? I sense the answer better by not knowing it. Because the ocean & the moon. Because the sailors know. Because because. The ocean in my town is like the ocean in my body. & I love the call to body that a body space ful gives.
In the space of home, whatever that means to you.
Whatever that means to me? I wonder if I will spend forever on this “whatever,” or if I ought to just comply to the object in the sentence. It means “whatever” to me: now shall I sit in whatever and be with my body & listen to what it has to say & not-say. Now shall I say with my body what I heard & not-heard.