metachrome woods





Forest grown and waterfloor, in the offing; mossy legs of the alder, lungs shale and ghillie skin. The hidey-child hangs off the branch, watching you find your basket. You’ve come far.


Careful beams your purply shawl, mushroom speckles to the trunk-cave, lift it, you’re safe here for now. Tin blue flame, hold it under your face for covert firesides and to do the scary joke. Still draped, the Bergamo kid laughs to herself at your big city. You could throw a glow-worm so up and at her; you could cry a little cupful for the babe-ling wolf spiders. They, too, know a thing about dislinked ekistics.


All that is for the coat: you’ve left it in the pond. The hidey-child glances at your scratchboard chin and I’m you you know. You’re a winter mineral a boy named win. A feather edge line. Found the pipeline for tingle and glum. Filched it proper. But you drew a new pine, an underarm entrance for the sling. Back then, you dropped down the street light, but that’s not the in for it. We stole you from lavabo, we do that.


And you’re a gully. We want you to stay, we’ll till you. Powderbox glue and a pearl. You’re a stun rider, a happy little blade dance. A leaf schorl, no longer in a fit. You’ve pinned every pressure point. You hinted at sky, schreierpfeifen in kind. We saw you from the ceiling, we do that. That’s just what we do.






Fitting the ribs, one should keep an organ on hold for one’s brother. The volition of indeterminates, not a capital disease. (Capital in the sense of death, retreat, accounting.)Failing that, a trapeze line of meanings, charges, and (of autonomous development) money owed. The money, namely, to children, in good faith and milk. Some doubled.


Die Zwillinge schweigen denn sie wissen wann es reicht und denken immer zu zweit. Capable, of the self, the known and when one is full, the weakness. This, they know. This, money owed and the books, and sweeping a blank hand over annuals. (If the percentage, if cuts.) Aged and wrapped in paper, a half-perry, and rinds for tomorrow.


But, here, the sister dynamics, twins, connected, sharing a heart. Sharing a spine. One sits up straight; the other tilts her head to make room. She gives breaths deeper to her sister. And this, you may say, is our capital. As every man separates them in his mind, as every woman adds herself to them. We try to say “you.” We fail.


Under the ribs. There they share lungs, take turns. This is our capital, you may say, in the space between properties. Self-defense forgotten and the feud placed aside. This, not of decision, but of circumstance, and of our special form. Our nerves connected, we cannot sever. We can only tilt our heads to make room. Let the twin-sister breathe.

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