Ethics

I sit where I at.

I ask you to work

backwards

from start to star

wanting the plosive

to go nova.

We stutter together

fists on the ripcord

until death is a thread

we follow and knot.

Sun stroked and likewise

we awe and crow

at the flaw we make

in the crowd, a busy nest

that samples anesthesia.

We quickly unfold

our numb bundle

to glow and flog

all that’s surgical

toward liturgy.

The spell is spelling.

The art in earth.

The if in life.

Without the world

we find each word

winnowed, the egg

in its nest compressed

to a cold seed riven

by ambivalent or.

A knot not saying

life. Knock-knock

nest knuckle. Rapping

acme spot. Let us wake

from this bed of bedazzled

leaves, from the depths

of our own grizzly sleep.

Let us slowly emerge

from the text’s exit

wound. Rewound.

The scrambled story

inside everything

we destroy. From

the very star.