Heavy elemental magic; bone on rock. A poem:

…

The poetry of my body is written in the metre of space between.

It follows not the clean or ragged rhythms of outward extension

but erupts from a volcanic groan always churning in deep matter,

placing new threads that link points in secret knots,

finely worked on the loom of many hidden miracles. 

The captive pulse of desire is my seat of being;

the emergency of that, a masterclass in my craft. 

Patterns appear with the photonic cry of an Icelandic winter

    - raw material, deep mater 

on a rock polarised like Earth’s wet mind when they I say,

offhand, that I learned to come by listening to Homogenic.

-NS