march mark

this is when i started marking the ground, orange blossoms in my fingers that couldn't remember the signs, when things started to take a serious turn, and the heart showed up in the firma that my fingers couldn't create without flaws, this heart, not strong yet, not made of rubber yet, is breakable, but even in the weakest hours has shown a remarkable capacity to heal itself, it knows the signs better than i think it does, is stronger than rubber, and can cause memories to gather with a cellular force that makes them grow like children. this is not a tribute to the children, it is not about the children, we love the children, this is not about them, this is the marking on the ground that was based on air and air carrying water coming to understand there is more to understand, and everything was knowable if the elements were laid bare under the light of the moon, or now just stars, and it was all in the details, and the signs were coded in the details and there for knowing through the mouth, through the hungry mouth that is skin, sucking in ink, saliva, and crystal tears until it turns salty with longing. the details, the moment, skin beneath two folds of cloth, a belly button with a hole into other worlds filled with narcotic ghosts, the button touches against the other button, pressing for skin beneath the cloth to breathe through contact with other skin, and the belly beneath the cloth begins to thunder, and no narcotic can darken the lightning, there above the head, then turned to two stars in perfect symmetry, thunder and lightning turned to a perfect symmetry, the belly begins to thunder, under a moon somewhere, when it was not raining, orange blossoms fall through my hands liker details. a new spice to your skin, the season has shifted into what it was planning on becoming behind our backs before our eyes, this new spice is a recent blend from the sisters of the mermaid that now dances on your arm, spice of indecision, vixen, and scales shed underwater. who knows, the fish don't even know. mermaid dances on your arm, now toward my belly, now in the moonlight, now like orange blossoms through the detail of your fingers. i want to remember everything but i haven't been keeping track of this with words, my mouth is full of nouns and verbs, and that's enough to keep tasting and wait before speaking, adding the spices that make it alluring to your mermaid's sisters, it's not ready yet, because it's not done yet, i have to wait, to hold off, to see the pattern on the ground, and i forgot what this sign means, it repeats too many times to fall into the right column or the left column, but i think it has something to do with the dead, but it always has something to do with the dead. you know me by now. i mark the ground, i read the marks i make on the ground, and i can't remember what they were supposed to mean, no one asked me for a promise, no dead ones came calling for their perfect offering, no weather spirits come asking why we have not visited, because we know we are living in their veins these days, and the siren on the moon says that she is too deep in the ocean to need promises any more. but the dead still rise, and the dogs still chase their shadows that look like us, and the sisters of the sea rise up from the weight of a body on a body to make a promise in reverse, and offer these small blossoms for the progression of the spirit, and this, the blossoming fingers and moonlit belly, is the place we left off last time, a hole marked in time, a hole that is not a place where unwanted things can enter, but where the air and the air that carries water might escape and find the buried treasure and wet scale shedding ghosts that move the world in ways that no marks can ever reveal, and no heart could ever understand.

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