I had an idea of making the book like that all this misreading from start to finish and the empty question inside.
An annunciation of errancies begins. Pools of shadow merging. Lunar movement is a flood. Arriving upon bodies. After this a dispatch of another substance. Perhaps stillness for a while. An instance named moment. Pools of scent merging not as memory but chimes. Fleshed metrics of stained walls and dark windows. Arrays of sword lilies dimmed by night. Florescence muted by sun’s obscurity.
Futility’s an edge guarding imagination. Prism could always differentiate. Errancy disperses muscles into materials. Water anoints. Within an empty why there’s no asking of why. Soothes by mixture. On skin rain does not soak it coats as garment. Flooded by sea’s green is different. Porousness is a question water answers. Inundation is within time until it absents time. Regals succulations of bliss.
Here within textures. Reading each other so strangely. I presumes against a you I holds. You slips aside. Pools hold without merging. A foliate bitter separateness. Skin carries textures as scripture. Flesh misreads itself interpreting other flesh. Searching for signs. With less than enough. Cutting a lily named for a sword from pool. Capable of severing no water or shadow. August’s questions ask a settlement.
How I come upon you within myself. This you that is no longer you. Detached. Now I. A flood begins a moment when flesh contains no scripture. Perhaps later. Water seeps without asking. Enraptures body into dissolutions. How I read you solutions chemical traces. Chloride immortal. It was said there are notations of endurance. Vortices indulging a flood of songs. From begin to end forms a circulation.
From a grave difference between pool and room. Dissolve and enclose. Sword lilies imbibe mute flames in shadow. Suffuse residuals of sun’s say. Flesh says less to lily than to sword. You come out of a grand awake indifference that does not diminish difference. Solution awaits binding. I don’t know. To you before merely I. I could have said. I don’t know. I dissolved in pools contained in your mouth.
Organs have their sensualities. Lungs temperament weather. Liver alters sipped flood. Tides have scriptures within bone’s memory. Scoured wood contains its drift. Eyes record a bright surface without sun. Fingers misread a texture out of dark. Populate absences with perhaps. Full vibrancies annunciate their ungiven names. Like this a pool’s book is filled. To go unread.
Each pool’s solution appears, irradiated, ghostly, on sharp edges as you merge into another.
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 secret-interference.info