Christine Stewart
The Trees of Periphery
West House Anthology
 
 
This is a science: Escaping an object, escaping a surface, escaping a felt habit that cradles
myth that is the baby pretending is the myth pretending—iron like glass

This is a science: And one foams and serves and wanders for water,
unable to drink, unable to quench, resenting windows with interiors of assumed grace, lamps of wealth,
and reddish almost purple shapes.

This is a science: And one blooms into failure, speaks memory which is fear, fear of
milky lips, fear of escaping, of escaping from asking for money, of escaping from
systems, of lacking escaping, of escaping fists, of escaping from escaping

This is a science: And we are gathering in finitude in something with a circumference we
cannot engrave.

This is a science: For Venuses, for the despised knowing, for the beloved space between
the hills, with wind to memorialize nothing.

This is a science: The beloved space.

This is a science: The trees of periphery. They are bruised in thunder. They are weaned
from sharp fields. They are orbed and one-eyed. Where they shook sucking.
Where they shook sucking in deep middle—in bright flecking mote—they pricked and lit and
pricked and lit.

Ah, prick of feigned light, distill the thrown road to all sphinxes.
Ah, jot of ochre bit, dark the room and stagger as such that road thus: with pine, with
yew.

This is a science: We sent out for names and all this came back as all this:
Thunder’s shrill pull, a fruited lung’s chitter: bitch, balsam, larch.

This is a science: It cares for no one
Branches synaptic, dendritic: inside sent (hurtling) outside.

This is a science: We are saving Venuses—twigged of light, left of condition: unsteeled
nor hewn—how was it flung? As far as blown and weightless.
As lucid as cedar collars make quivering
whippets peel—a stuttered wad’s
translucent bark.

Through late sun leaning—these trees of periphery.

This is a science: Human has never clattered its empty hall.
Ripe hums from its thunder: mall-faced & Purple.

This is a science: We are smelling Venuses—blows of light, the pinkish wrinkled mind.
Sticky giants cusp—salty & gape into green—bobbing like wind in the pernicious broom

This is a science: We are waving Venuses. Surrounded by thunder, we clean the caked
ear, the shrinking bum, the high slope of hip. We scrape the penny years of shitting and
fucking.

This was the beginning: primping. Small qua loin, Small qua song of
presto.
& jet

The trees of periphery—through late sun leaning.

Next to pine send us ochre, sienna or scutum which has corners send us what comes or
whatever give us what we want your beating fleet heart in my hand shallow heart scored
with flames seared heart infinite skin for this mouth, worn teeth to that lip touch
beautiful woven foot to curved spine of I we want it back scarf the rare laws of our
foreheads fashioned into leather give the wanton leg of wrapping its lip of quilt and
wanting make close these rooms that lie each night between us suffering orbs of hall
wood suffering without kissing anything as rare as wanted as your stained pillow as your
soft social mouth imagined softer in the local parsimony of I we will never say provincial.

This is a science: Without proper laws we are saving Venuses.
We are not saving Venuses without proper savings we are gathering little beauties as
whole trucks of houses
As whole trucks without being born, without boxes we surplus the simple stupid times.
We are collecting, without the solemn yellow nuptials.
With the solemn yellow nuptials we are seeking its sweet crushing smell, its four hands,
its round civic eye. The true ears are strange, very small. Becoming dark green from
above. Sweeping, sticky. Sweetly with rusty hairs. Sweetly snaked in bark, in blame, in
common, they cannot wade in wide culverts against gravity. Where there are no small
fish and nothing returning, this is deception. This is the failure of a culvert. Alongside
they hold their colour. Their truth is pinnate, sweet and ordered, dull and bitter, sweet
and bitter and folded like copper. There are two along 12th Avenue, East. Extraordinarily
opening to near white. Burning easily in hot windy exhaustion. They fear exhaustion and
the transcendental concept of freedom. They face each other. We sail the interstitial rim.

These are the trees of periphery bruised by the arousing thunder light through the late
sun leaning sweet in the brown dark gathering circumference our crushed smell.