poem #6

I laid a thought on a ground, it germinated into an ancient heap of fungi. Appetizers in a deep umbrella-reversed form where the tip reaches into the ground providing a hamac for thoughts and words and dances. An element of fear permeates the fabric of movements. I move things everyday, i wear words everyday, words let me wear their skin, a loan. Words are in debt of my skin, do words have second thoughts? second skins?
Sewing inside of a book i read. I read through a time which hasn’t become an event yet, which resist the eventification. How can we delay the thing from being an event?
Some sort of grotto of a library, with its red soils and crevices. Slow infiltrations on a finger leaking, dipping in a stone-hole. A hut, a finger’s shelter. A wood from which i warm myself as i tear apart the plancher, board by board, listening to our creakings.
This May assembly, this poem, looks for words, listens with the flesh of words through its chaotic composition of algorithm and dancing beings, researchers and floating curators.