book 6: that which crawls around worn out words, above the rumbling earth of aching roots

When I woke I found myself back underneath the smoke tree, its spiny fingers taping my eyelids to stir me. I was exhausted but attempted to describe my journey to it and to not leave out a single detail on where I had just been. I even described how the tree itself had disappeared and I had stood, for a brief moment, before the invention of color.

It told me I needed to listen to the lines of the journeys. Their ripples, waves, filmy movements. Its lessons inside volumetric flasks, all grace and glass. The journeys had been woven by  the sea, threadbare and all of our hair. They contained the three tiers of arches of The Pont du Gard, a rich and endless backyard. Nilometers and blankets of translucent sand. Ladders and leyden jars built hand by hand.  As it spoke, upside down trees and flat disc-shaped worlds began to grow in the palm of my hand.

And it told me more. More than I can tell you. More than I can tell you because the words for it have not yet been invented. But you’ll hear it regardless. It’s very close. Its wordless, silent, only in the pauses and the notes.


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