I carve kallisti on a heavenly body, the moon waxed beyond
recognition: pewter apple of discord, a forecast gone feral.
What is perception if not a mirror held up after surgery? Dare
I still see myself? Here, beyond new slopes and strange
valleys: an identifiable constant, a compass, a sieve for the
orbit’s detritus, my own stellar clusterfuck. La lune, der Mond,
месяц, луна… pale seeds swallowed by that hungry cleft,
that lunaticked box. Do I know what it is, how it moves, what
it wants? All around the air stinks of dog; a lupine Ophelia
afloat in the firmanent, a big bad bang chasing its vestigial
tail. I inhale to eclipse, exhale to salt circle, a transmundane
membrane between Cronian and Cronenbergian. And in that
wet void, exposed and hidden in turns,
I can feel something hatching
without my say-so.