Refraction (Trilce) / Aaron Boothby

Let’s see. That one could be without being more. Let’s see. Don’t let it transcend outward, and think as if it’s not being listened to, and chrome and not be seen. And not glise on the great collapse.

 Velvet edge of dissolution the limit falls. Noiseless. Acidic. Touched by a feathered heart that holds you down. In the stone’s pooled dark gathering mosses. Forms of life swarm and swim. Without seeing. There is this doing it is not witness. A needle from a cedar falls into the pool. Becoming drowned. Beyond sun’s reflection that turns transparency black.

Come asking. Come. Charity lingering on tongue’s chords. Under tree’s twisting as it grows. Bound to erupting out of rock. Taking of time which is all it has. After air. After water. Stitching elementals into fibres. A circulation is knit from atmosphere. You cannot see it. Plot is a foam. Fills the absence of nerve’s witness. One could always not say. Compulsion of ebbing nerves.

Enough’s a seed’s exhaustion. Having done rupture. Broken soil’s bond. That reach could be. Towards a first light’s anoint. Solitary under a hot shine. At the mercy of more a production of process. Luxury sits on the body’s autonomy. That churn goes like nerves recommend. A scene of ingestion and expulsion without thought. Luxury of more. Memory clutching at a warm evening’s jasmine light.

Tired extravagance of sea’s impossibility of meaning. A word was asked to be sufficient for is but is not. Each text for bliss but is not. Bliss slides across a text’s vaporous surface. Past each reflection is no soft growth for fingers to stroke. Where is possibility of within. All substance reduced to sight. Where our discarded garments lap frothing against a velvet edge.

Roots grip and say there can be no more than this. Planted asks a mercy of visitations. Receives a curse. Listen to these nerves when they ask more it is a claim to flight. Stumbling on white stones dissolved to round by waves. Scarred by an embroidery of ice. Enough lays no more claim than leaf. Leaving to air and time an errancy. Until roots bind a clutch of stones.

Trained under a sign of a satellite cacophony of bells. Thirsting for a reach towards a plastic that moistens no globe. An eye coils itself. Wraps a fuchsia mood of solitary around our stem. Could be without reaching’s more. Behind image is skin behind skin is nerves behind nerve is flesh. Toward an obscure lack of resolution. Startled by a crimson taste of chrome.

Against what’s animal there was an ideal drawing a false eclipse across solar pleasure.

Aaron Boothby is a poet from California now living in Montréal. Work has been published in PRISM, Axolotl, Liminality, and other journals while a chapbook titled Reperspirations, Exhalations, Wrapt Inflections was published in 2016 with Anstruther Press. A website can be found at

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