Equation Two

You will recall the day the dead returned to the village. Name it now the nebula of perfect expulsion. These fragments of existence spin their enclosing web, unlock the uncertainty of grace. We are late. On the third day we will dance with the beer; the vessel will be prepared for the corrupted descent of power. Radiant in its bounded estate, the spirit knows itself as the guide who moves to erase her footsteps. So once again the dance negotiates the property of being strange, that absolute desire for falling. The red roof tiles slip into the morning fog There is a red silence all around us. It will take years to learn this coherent grammar. The oriole has established an evasive coherence, infinite, exact, with its place, there where the day seems set to honor the bird's expressive deceit. Logic always fails that Carolina wren. The propositional exactitude of a certain absence draws fire upon its wings. The bird knows itself a strict proposal of faith, a ground state that moves without an absolute space. Grammatical bird, attuned to roots and implication. Love is ancient evidence, an instrument constrained, jealous of its utility, in awe of its own death; every name embraces it.