The Dislocation of the Work of Art

In one direction is nothing

and in the other a swarm

forming.

Blue bones inside

a clear sack and crushing close

to the ear.

Alien accents akin to thin

hammerstrikes or a silver

scythe slicing scented air

into unruly flowerets.

Slight shift—a word fumbles

forward—wrestles itself

free—sword drawn.

Quick feet. A lunge through

bloom.

But only one self,

one at a time please,

lining up and stepping off

into the abyss.

A battle wages.

Somewhere in all this a map.

Don’t wander off course,

but of course take some chances.

Otherwise life is just empty

chambers, pointless barrels.

So many sad guns in the corner!

Said the insistent egg

in the box trying to fit

another sound in

by cracking.