Forest Hanging from Inflection Point
by Daniel Carden Nemo
Light slings low between detached dimensions where the forest hangs
from an inflection point. The wind makes for it a shell-shaped labyrinth,
a network of nodes in which photons cross-sweep the retina.
Alveoli drink it neat, render movement possible.
Reflections travel by a sort of revolution. Aerial structures
lie bare here in the trueness of physical time as if darkened by fallout,
past and future seem infinite corridors running at each other,
nothing to hold them in place except your story told from birth to death,
who you are, an untested hypothesis: yours-meets-theirs, the world.
from an inflection point. The wind makes for it a shell-shaped labyrinth,
a network of nodes in which photons cross-sweep the retina.
Alveoli drink it neat, render movement possible.
Reflections travel by a sort of revolution. Aerial structures
lie bare here in the trueness of physical time as if darkened by fallout,
past and future seem infinite corridors running at each other,
nothing to hold them in place except your story told from birth to death,
who you are, an untested hypothesis: yours-meets-theirs, the world.
© Daniel Carden Nemo
