ditch,

the poetry that matters

Nicole Raziya Fong

Nicole Raziya Fong resides in Victoria, BC, where she attends the University of Victoria, majoring in Creative Writing. Past work has appeared in Carousel Magazine.

Unit 22

 

Seen, the sleeping of others.

Behind what the dream recalls vanishes an iris of memory.

Shade unhinged by light, by each purpled point of isolation.

Rising solidity, yellowed, rung with absence.

*

Pulpy-eyed window, inside what is looked upon. The emergence of truth was spectacle for others’ eyes.

A body transits deeply, without command.

I walk here beneath the golden sheen of what sets, ignorance blissed into the deep noon of tides.

One door must close to the other. Reality is but another reflection in the hallway.

Merciful undulation under knowing nothing vanishes. Oh, careful symmetry of folded sheets loosed to the temperance of climate, tangential quality of your off-whiteness!

Knowing it is not direction that is acted upon.

 

 

 

“Because a mirror contains the secrets of those it’s held within” … “Did I or did I not tell you to…” “If something comes to an end, then its beginning will also be important” …

Dining room piano. I did not see it when I came, but hear it now.

“I am sorry to say you no longer have Sight” … “I will wait to know”… “I come to you now without an I, for it is not an I that is now seeing”… “Did I or did I not…”

Each key strains in definition, as if it’s trembling lay in opening something more than sound. Each note became its own answering, irrevocable, named in sacrifice.

“All that is known now, need be”… “May I ask who is seeing?”… “I feel like they’re telling me something”… “Then perhaps you must search”… “I’m walking away”… “They’re still speaking” …

Chords unwrite us, or speak to namelessness. The television narrates irreverently before the coda. But they have turned the television off…

Window. Sunlight across movement, static idea of motion across a space that propels, remaining apart.

“I have seen all I have needed to see”…

 

 

 

Setting lights upon us, ocherous.

Waking between mirrors.

Sheen and whiteness of perfect circulation.

Sulfurous wound running through you.

*

I saw the brokenness as a means of interpretation. While I swallowed, what foul seed was borne through me? I was not mirror to my fading, nor to the emergence of sick birds, moving up through the soil as though it were air…

Eyesight shrouded visibility, spawning inner notion. All hours encounter here, locus to no refraction, jeweled history sending time as prongs to bend the body.

Dawning irrevocability. Bandage around each seething and thus contained, burrow.

*

Robes opening backwards make illness architecture.

Lanes of blue. Photons ramble personhood, rapid denotation of color and colorlessness.

Memory of being leaves the body in its wake.

What the mouth didn’t swallow wrote itself from under the fold. Your overboard thought stripped the pines, cawing.

What exits us cleaves a shattered path.

Sadly, I amount. Weigh in with diamonds, wrestle as sanity. Moths curdle. Theirs is an elongate suffering.

From the trespass emerged hallways that knew their portion of absence even as they set ground to distance.

Limbs wander, travelling away from the desired point.

 

 

 

Somewhere above rooftops I assume plants breathe aftereffect.

Where apertures tune dawn, spectrums release.

Found veins manacled plasma’s new garnet.

 

Torn close to segments

Decipherable wears down in the rain

Visualized wall: pastoral

Nearness threatens pixel’s disintegration

 

Cutout of places and people

Cloying flora

Same blank surface beneath all faces

 

Uncoupled layers.

 

 

 

Couldn’t get damage to reveal what breathed itself tentatively through you. The thin retrospection of walls repeals emotion’s fragrant scenery. It’s a calm you wouldn’t have felt.

Macabre inwardness. Tiered palinopsia moves on and away from systematic nearness. All this becoming chafes.

Immateriality solidifies, terrestrial. Saw necessary as blue shadow behind the vision: hinged sunspot, deft tracer. Lag says less of movement than of remembered terrain: perhaps I have become my own death.

Calder mobiles intersect at the discarnate point of the mind. Bias and span: block-like or fluid, both ruched and like prairie. Rattle the void, constantly spawning.

Settled fear between outspread hands, bulbous. Obsidian shifts between ribs. It can be sadness or allegory. Feeling shadowed, momentarily, its Sight from us.

 

 

 

The notion of law creates the same defiance against that law – what reflects owns no reflection, cedes no imitating image of itself. When I say I miss you, it is the space around your reflection I absent.

Pillars halved, excavation still scrim to their dreaming. Lichen burrows into the marble of wait.

On the grounds to the body: foundation of brokenness, the dust rabbled ruins whose spirit roams the space around the solid thing.

The stones still crow.

Alteration of light, gradual rising, revealing, revolving. Collapsing tiers. A name is being written, no longer familiar that which writes it.

A mirror is not a window.

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                                                                                                                              October 14, 2011