meditation cycle

-- a child is born into a cave of glass so he cannot be loved by sadness yet

-- the material adhering to his green irises, how lightning appears vermilion in cataclysm, stretching its smooth blood into his sleep (the smallest redundancy of space)

-- when i look at plants bound to stakes in that courtyard, i am deleriously sad about yesterday, even though there were no pasts behind that glass, or occurring yet in his eyes. turning to morning, or the night within morning

-- at these verdant heights, we can be temporary or inversely strange to breathing, at the center of a house whose walls allow our cries to mingle with his. rebounding and spiraling up or down in tandem, you who are-- who we are. no we-- but i

-- i want to think of the sea as a belief, having gone over it asleep, in a valence of sadness. the waves shut off at midnight. the moon flickering clear. how is it we are continuous through child and soil, precipitated, enclosed