Friday, April 21, 2017

a village bound

 is the village bound
 a rattle on the sea
 a bridge becomes a dock
 in the noise of nowhere
 but language

 and if tusks mount the skin of staves
 they are bound in words
 to become

 cocoon boats are the huts
 which are tied by their tongues
 to the docking thumbs
 thumbs up!

 a single round hole in one end
 is the portal window to a boat-hut
 surrounded by a frame
 a spokeless felloe
 like a wheel

 but the 6 o'clock handle is larger
 a tongue

 but there is no main land
 for the bridge is loose
 abiding only by the laws
 of the noises of the sea

 the village bound
 is haunting me
 a staff with dangling cowries
 laid down on the brine
 to float

 stone peanuts hale
 and true
 and pregnant
 grim joy leaks out
 and lasers arc from the tips
 of the cocoons

 there is starlight
 in a young papaya
 soft black stars
 made of echidnas
 wearing coats of pickled peppercorns
 and dancing headless
 into the wallless stew

 its finial spinning orbits
 are clustered
 with mutant astrolabes
 and their caterpillar herald knights
 go and bequeathe

 these drawings of abstract sails
 on which the legend remains
 that a no one is listening

 and the learned thing
 gives high and dry
 its kick
 to the airborne urchin's head

 is mystery toward
 its own one solvent
 the sun types language
 in its own regard
 and is bound
 for language