No accident in the seeing, or in the guessing of wrecked geometries lurching toward living form, like a piece of coral, once ripped from the calm of unreflected function. Pure brute of thing merely clustering into one aberrant image, as if surprise were the single stop in a local shuttle. But the many claws hang on to our desire to say, guitar, arteries, mangrove root. To say and make the world ours through and for the ambush.
Gathering is gratitude.
They plop like flaccid linebackers, lovers' numb fingers sweat-freighted, petaling the pools of breast and thigh. But their blood and flesh is sand, and so they wait for floods, or at least a heady wind with which to press their case against patience. Anchors for the ephemeral kiosks that turn street and plaza into sudden fora. Weight, you are the sister of depth, often drafted into service. What dangers you pose to the body of an idea.