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Saturday, 29 December 2012

Andrew Ruzkowski


“In the world of imagination, all things belong.”
—Richard Hugo

Brushed gray forms concentrics.  Shuffling sheet
metal singing rivets domed and smooth.

Smooth winglet, raked wingtip device vortices-

think of Yeats’ gyres.  The physics
of it, the it of it.


It is all about shapes and

lines.  A meridian becomes pulsate and
planar.  A weakening of gravity, the
field dismantled.  The matter graying, the

matter becoming air and columns through spheres.

Columns echoing splayed
radians to degrees.


I think about splicing algebra.  The variables
raveling          x-y,      x-y,      x-y. 
Integer-shoots like strings flicker,
it is a terrible thing to want perfected symmetry.

It is a terrible symmetry to want.


Becoming air twists ventricles and vessels,
becomes space between circles and eyes,
becomes specks in the iris and the distance
in a crystalline structure, the angle of grains

reflected in salt and light and years.

I breathe now.  The columns speak.
Half-tones click.  Vocal cords seize.

Again, gravity shifts elliptical.  Flex and flux and
the fluid body sinks to a curve.
Vapor forms in continents and water traps.

The breath becomes a rippling machine.


A torn ligature widens bodies and gravities,
knifes time-zones and measured space.

Blood swells from planet to lips,
from touch to touch to form,

from a prayer-cadence caught in daily lungs.

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