Turtles

Turtles

Homunculus within all things birthing itself as the void once found the nothing of its imagining and lived into a tight dense soup exploding as plasma for the turtle of the world to carry on its back and wonder over its young.

To birth being as a little brother, tomahawk in hand, cutting his own stalk and umbilicus of the dark, invisible, austere, prepared for the electricity of the subtle mind and the third eye to come.

To sleep in the nests of the animal mind and in the green fecundity of plants, to reach roots and in the sea to sway like kelp in the currents of killing and eating, the dead falling in their skeletons to the deep crush of brethren, the heap of mothers, the spawn of cells and the creep, so persistent, of time with its monkey on its back and the glint of vengeance from a seemingly fatherless child.

Inhabit the Wilds awhile, little girl with her Russian tongue setting off or earlier still, gathered as at food or night fires to chew the blinking sky and rub the dry dust of worlds just beyond our ken, in the surf, in the outline of her body sleeping, in the transport to the future she has given us.

A dry bread crust of the slivered moon flat as grinding stones and powdered as what might land inadvertently in her work on her skin and hair.

The sky taut and revealing as the cutting barc of ancient trespasses pulled over sky humps like a trap of poles pulled with all of our belongings similarly humped, laid in or buried with the dead for travel

to the future time of us.

The slop of our misused feelings, the turnover by plow and spade of hard ground and peat, patient as the centuries to bring new words to thought, a cacophony to language as still as the girl with her turtle, the world,

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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