- Vol. 08
- Chapter 11
It hurts me to see that poor worn clementine perched atop
its world, one thin green arm still holding out for balance.
Its edges are now dappled and rough, each atom a tiny hole,
or else the edge of a tiny hole. The vague wodge of white
that it sits on will not let it fall, but is unable to do more
– it is just pulp, does not feel the heat and pain and glory
of life-cells, of being swollen with water and pressure,
of having been created for a reason, but creating your own,
because you cannot disappear, not even to allow a grove
of yourself to fruit. The dark hunk of dough holding it all
should be the same – just matter – but sometimes, it thinks
it could be coal, feels a fire in its ancient bones and shells.
Taken as a whole, this entity is not displeasing to the eye.
It is abstract art. It will all make sense, when we are wiser.