After Tomas Tranströmer
O needless thing
thing of beauty
thing of soft and private breath
truest black hiding in pupil, thing
so terribly unborn; a river
no, the dream of a river
no, the dreamer breathing
no (the dreamer brea) thing;
air serpent molting in a flute
the trill, an afterthought, shed skin
the quiet between
barren tub and sky
the secret gap
through charred wick and blue flame
the soil’s inside joke
dis-conceived womb
the potential of milk
crouched at zero meters
pre-implosion; the carrot seeds whispering
let’s play pretend
God robed in buried amber
every tiny moment
crowns and
collapses
into a million pirouettes
a fractal of peacocks
drowning constellations
more real than everything else—
these quietly screaming things.