Here Is Where We Must Feel

More prosetry from 2 AM.

   Held in valor because it serenely disdains to anihiliate us, how it does. How the rocket stabs down, dagger in the deep, a fish eye under the moss, a telescope protuding, glinting murder from the cliffs. Brass once, salted and scraped and inverted, turned and locked, and stuck. Caged, uncivilized inside or out, but below it is the starry fissure, where home is, where we fell from, where we must fall into ... And outstreched in our arms, toes on the edge, profess the book before the glass, gaze through the void, the irrversible tumbled upwards, inwards, not northwards, of our hand scratching the paper, where is the picture? the moving one, the one where the palms sway and the sands gleam and the lovers on the beach are so pained to be glazed in each others tears ... Can our hands grasp it, can we reach within the picture, falling forward, falling inwards, upwards, not northwards, circular - no, eliptical - forever and through the cool cosmic winds, to weave us sails from thought, and from a pen the rudder and from the book a world to journey to ... How the twilight reverses from the inside of a star, chess games waged for wisdom burnt, scorched to make one's solace, to make candles for the wayfarers, lucidity in the fog of wars for light, as we reach to eclipse it from our eyes, luminosity we can not afford to see, our other hand a fist, red and ready, a spring in motion, a stream rightly flowed through grass and pebbles, spigots turned and paths sunken forth where the trees rise, the book beneath, the letters beyond, static shrieks in red and blue and the last book cautions us the choice is false, where the beauty lies, so do the brothers, the last page sliding in as the stab comes down and ... the rocket, hitting you first, on the tip top of your head, and for the slightest moment before, you have to, you feel it.