Theory of Entanglement
No longer impossible: spooky action at a distance. Far away particles in simultaneous disarray, simultaneous harmony (see harmonic theory, see adding to the series one by one, see approaching infinity, see Goethe in the grass, etc). To even measure spin is to throw the system to the dogs. What will the dogs do with it? The dogs will hold the system gently between their teeth. Or the dogs will bite down. In the end, the tar’s drawn out of us either way, the tar’s returned to coal, the coal’s returned to its own deep seam, out of which, look at them!, the plants are standing up again, revived.
When I come, I see neither plants nor stars. Maybe darkness. The shape of words. The shadow. The dog is barking again, and she’s followed me to this room. If the system. If the seam. Goethe believes there are only two colors: blue and yellow; the first being a darkness weakened by light, and the latter being a light dampened by darkness. This morning, a dampening. The drive to the school bus. The leaves stuck on the windshield. My mother claims that the only redeeming quality of her third husband was his ability to untangle a tangled necklace. Imagine his patience. Later, his disappointment. Is it raining where you are?
When misaligned, I think distance comes measured in pecks, like dirt–
where is the path the syllables left? Press a stethoscope face-down in dirt.
Let the disc and tube amplify what courses beneath the city silt.
I am less lonely in the loam, less loathsome, more toothsome in the dirt.
If a body meets her double drifting through the ether: catch her on a kite string,
stitch to her like a shadow, slide inside her sleeves; bed down in the dirt.
Down in the dirtbed bed. Bed of nails, of chaos, bugs, bed of roses,
bedchambers, o my bedfellow, my bedside, my bedlam, my bed of dirt.
Be mine entanglement of weed, then, mine draught of green upturned,
Let’s dress in grass and thorn again, smash our empties in the dirt.
Round our crowns with dandelions, suck in our guts like teenagers,
never clean our skin or hair, leave our peaty faces ridden with dirt.
Spit-shine nothing. No mirror but the word to love you with, to love
with you: to wrack and ruin, to bark and ache. To pack this room with dirt.
O Zoȅ, when we were girls, we learned all the names for shame.
But we are other now. We’re goodness; we’re what’s found growing in dirt.
Ghazal w/ Blue
In such that I have awoken in this room with its walls of faded blue
and that my dreams of nearly fifty years have been in black & white, and blue.
Dream of gently spinning coracle, of hash in a tin box, of open circuit,
of closed. Dream of navel tether, of paper horse unfurling: muted blue.
Dream of dreaming of dreaming in which I will what is left of my self
to walk along the shore towards a figure. Blue of sea, sky of blue.
When the self walks out of the self, what is left behind and what continues?
In what space is each encased, or is it? In what mutable zone: intertidal, blue?
What is left behind is what continues; only the mutable zone is immutable.
And what of the blur, the blurring? This blain and blame, this blue?
To press against the mist to find the knife tip inside. To lean just enough
to feel the edge of all things: here and here, moving as a body moves, sharp, blue.
And what of the soul? Can I say that word here? And here, and here again?
The soul—its movement through this room, its shaky legs, its call so blue.
Listen, Nicole. Let’s ration out what’s rational. Use reason within reason.
The soul’s turned loose, already past the last thing we can see, achy blue.