Lisa Williams reads
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Movement means closure, a thrust from where you are, that gelid other plane, your bell-like head with wordless aperture emptying, emptying, the pleats of your innards, a shallow accordion. Your tendrils trail neon lit cities of cells —you, pellucid ferry, invisibly carried spun dome like the ghost of some merry-go-round. And we who don’t float with such unconscious ease think it terror to rise from our notions of land, rock, and ownership, can’t ride a bottomless plain, colored thrust in our sails, in the lax, placid matter that holds, not from falls (for you too fill your head so your gossamer motors move onward) but holds your shape firm. Even you, if you never once moved, if you didn’t take in the first place where you are, fold around that cold present then push out, with liquid momentum (like knowledge) from flushed, chambered cells, would ascend nowhere new. In the planktonic dark, a touch is the world, the devouring of touch motion’s guidance. Your emptied bell head tolls the thrust, the sole luminous effort—clear life thinking’s lost!