Leaning over me,
she brushes
her cauliflower curls
across my chest.
Movement itself—
imagined
from one point to another,
the arbitrary surfacing
and vanishing
of the coordinates it
brings into being—
is no intermezzo, but
rather the
everyday form of
generation
and of bearing witness.
Leaning over me,
she brushes
her cauliflower curls
across my chest.
I see the back of her head,
her body,
as she crouches before
me on all fours,
like an animal,
as I plant the trunk of my
testimony in her,
clear the forest,
plow the field,
dig trenches,
raise structures—
huts, barns, palaces, factories—
only for the scene
to collapse
in the very next instant.
I sink down beside her,
exhausted.
Leaning over me,
she brushes
her cauliflower curls
across my chest.
