AnnMarie Eldon

The nocturnal fix-attempt

The cold-forged nails are our waiting. We make panels around our isolation. Of it the spikes are already driven into pailings upon which the rain coats and runnels against the separating boards. The boards are sodden and turning to tissue. The stomach understands this and we inhale the liquid as sweat. Sweat is simply itself contained within itself within the rain so there is only squeam-surface and that as cold as cold and more rain sheeting too and against that the only barrier a glazing. And thus to glazing sprigs ice sharp as the night falls and sprittled through the stomach hope. We have to batten down somehow even though no equipment for it. They dole out everything we need the sleep carers and thus make the nailing down more far off as morning could be. But we have the ice fields to traverse and later mountains so as for the heaven feel we are practical with all things woolen and multiple layers and even the catch garments have tiny tacks somewhere within their seams. Pins too. Whence the water falls the clout nails appear along the edges of the fixing slates. We are compartmentalized for the handing out and the galvanized dreads come and something akin to anti-nausea the slight beckoning slope of it so enticing from the ground the dirt wire mesh to get through to get to the field the field of our making the ruts of it. Our rolling the black rectangular details. The reached-switch machine would make a film of the nailing but it is as loud as drums the endless cut and endless in number the endless tacks the water down. Sheared from our joint slaking the stakes backed up against our ankles and only a singular tension and no disassociation not grouped for any map start and no one to pull back and no one to remind and no one. All the moisture a gut capable droll hammering of it of foaming at the mouth's expense of the temples of pulse points in the elbows' crooks whenever we are grateful. The hands out for pliers to recycle the nails by but only a dull steel-like smudge where the moon might be. The rose-head nail a swallowing the wrought nails the throat snails slow the choking then the roof of the mouth a overhead hazard which threatens to slip in its dry like a terrible tearing or a tear-duct tare the zinc-scream of it waking alone in a sigh of loose tiles slithering to at best a claw tool vein threatening the terror. It cannot happen so the moon is sluiced away. To where here broken between the dissolving panels where taken to fixing between saturated withies the walls half-holding despite pleadings the bleeding shins marking descent there again there each step. And a hand's breadth gloved yet loveless trek. How slow memory hoardings melt how low-abandoned for loving for wanting it to hold together. Cannot nail must glue pelts how spent how bowed the hell-bent head the alloy allowance waned. Squarer now and with a single throw all offers useless and a no no no.

# posted by AnnMarie Eldon @ 4:18 pm 0 comments