Art is an interventionist tool, pure
dialectic, mulberry branch, florum.
Rainblowers calling to oncoming clouds:
thesis, antithesis. I discovered
divination, origin, the reader
inhabiting flaxen flowers of space.
It was not telepathy but a verb.
We were clamoring green out of the cane
becoming pictures of calamity.
It is not the anthropocene’s membrane
we remember; we resist the image,
resist the resurrection of image.
The only things moving in the forest
are the spiders crawling out of it and me
weaving at the window the world in its
recurring acts of disappearances
then turning away, turning to the page
to give attention to the firmament,
its flat star charts, seeking art.