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, 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, untested hypothesis: yours-meets-theirs, the world.
© Daniel Carden Nemo
