BY ELAYNA BROWNE
THE SCENTED FOX
I will now set out to disarrange myself. Comely were thee waters and the flying burrs and this nonsense of a balcony when only she could think of a little shift- the separation and vision of particles. Into the evening which does curl about itself comely as we pair to walk at night, though we walk nought since to watch is naught else but the underside of thought. Grow reticent in asking, this we knew well, to know was asking askew an otherwise wetted normanclature. So we walk about the furniture and turn astride to ask the wetted frock whose hansom once meeted a hemm.
I write in whichways aslant and nonne knowest otherwise where from these antiquated words did furrow, it is on no current askew but to pass the harbor lookingly. So lookingly she passed and bemoaning that she had as of yet no contryl of the features of this landscappe she did seek to carve out in words before her. Beholden she was to the myth of blankness, to all forms which had passed beneathe her eyes and to those which had not- but that she had heard tell of through elsewise she knew naught.
rain is known as soft water
I am using the word "deft" to refer to a mimetic body. Though ivy faces seem not to chance while we are tangled in them. For example, the vehemence surrounding a furnace is said to cause fault lines. Their typology is based upon the expression about the mouth.
The tiled flowers have grown dim. Was there nowhere but here? The scent surmised a glass full of tremors. Misplaced a hound for a windowpane, a conclusion for a prescription and now that the liminal status has departed, I wondered and he made an explanatory model of his sleep.
My birth shadow is round, a mark of pure silver
A sentence of rime, covered with metlectic mirrors
She goes about as if she were just come out of the mountain
He follows the starling from his perch amid rushes
On their speckled wings he has seen eyes
They walk hand in hand beyond motion. The sky falls lightly into place as they pass. Sleet blanket over the tops of the firs. Waist clothed in lavender. Knees covered by hillsides.
They met upon the crimson book, upon which they sat.
We have sung, he said, a folded hour. Impossible the way white is sand.
Color prescribes certain entrances both after, and after a reverse.
They blend themselves equally with time, unequally as they are called to do so.
I must not understand you as you wish, he said, for then we would be of one body. To be of one body we could not meet.
Here she dreamed of purpled blood, and here, he lost the pointed barbs of the hawthorne-retrieved the haw. They stood surmounting icy water, searched for it's element of glass until all attempts at speech resembled clouds.
No syllable did not seek reflection in these woods, these double companions. Finally the wetted ravine sat between them.
They walked along the crimson brook which described older glances when the ravine seemed not as wet.
Silence outstretching speech.
Her fingers enwined within what she had witnessed
Branches in his chest
Drenched was the slight lavender gray which suffuses all light, the slightly open buds of magnolia.
In their own homes all women shall be queens. As time passes they shall be once again owls, but keep within a knowledge of divine rite: how their metaphorical children escaped from the ogre and returned to the woodcutter's house with gold crowns upon their heads.
When her grandmother dreams, she holds the child with her dead husband in a delicate wing. She looks through her grandmother's prism to a dream, holding the child who has not yet arrived. The queen can be viewed as her thoughts taking flight. Birth, loss of the other self, the double mirror.
When she had regained her senses she picked up her hand and locked the sentence again, so it appeared to reveal nothing: In their own homes, the bird's of Athene were ruled by notational systems found upon bones and horns. Not having these her sentence becomes a transparent solid body used for dispersing light into a spectrum.