amy trussell



gash in the volcano

escapee forestalled at the border of time/space.
field studies blown through the slot in the parallel
invitation to merge into last nightís kelp forest
screen it. duck under woolen cloaks that
throng the infinite ceiling
sleep to escape self plastered on everything
mix it up in a palette like sacred bridal science
one thread of acceptance invites another to cross it and soon
a loose weave of self forgiveness.
lift it out of the dye bath with tongs so as not to burn skin
density grows with each shuttle across open space
this is all thatís left now, our glowing interiors
everything else has been shed or torn off
without warning or predating.
bolts of altar cloth stretch over the ocean
like a mass of blood carnations
and a feather is loosed from the fierce hummingbird
who darts into the pueblo at the base of the skull
this is a pelting of jade against wall for no real reason
the coral secretes more of itself in order to lace the sea
with more layers, like blowing glass underwater.
the heart is a mollusk, seeking to lock on to
something consistent and strong
even in a hollow that once contained danger.
and then there are the exotic species that glow all night
and drink silt and runoff all day
jeep across time and see the fossilized spiral
made by the turtle who lumbers on
with nothing surgared in its movement through blasting wind
devote your richness to this spelunking
and forage for ferns worming through the gash in the volcano







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