Sound of crickets in which I split the horizon open and see what is left inside:
a bird with no tender beat left in its heart. The measure of time by your stride. An acorn pressed into my bare foot.
The rules: we must run until we forget our lungs. We must run to a place so deep not even instinct could remember the way.
An us in which the knife is the only instrument sharp enough to cut our beginning from the vine.
The vine: a something that knows movement as a deer—
The beginning: a something of us founded upon that movement—
in which when the fire is done breathing we can ink through the vigil of no more than starlight.
In the place we find the bird, we wash its feathers until they shine beyond light. The beginning rots and the vigil rots and the deer rots.
Without the deer we have no use of movement. The vigil ends and even the dark. The bird
does not. The bird is a quiet and therefore rests beyond the ending. That deep place in which it is the only existence. The flicker in the empty, the beak that cuts the horizon like a knife.
Heath Joseph Wooten is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University. He is an avid collector of cassettes and other obsolescences, and you can find his work in or forthcoming from Lammergeier, EX/POST, [sub]liminal, and others.