The sweet dreams of needles plunged into meridian points that
connect to the earth and stars giving away that quiver of qi up
your arms into the cavern where a heart used to be and actually
still is but the cave seems larger with steep walls climbing
higher than the sky although to pierce a necessary point while
you lie on the table and feel the plunge. The plant in your
bedroom has big leaves and an arrogant attitude. Objects
abound. The book on shoes you bought because you had to,
because you did not buy it before and thought about it and felt
it as loss, suddenly now the book reappears and that loss can be
filled perfectly. Unlike. Unlike.
How much needs to be explained about loss remaining loss?
The earth as burial for secrets, the stories never told and only
one person knows and will not say but asks for the needles to
dream and break the narration.