There are some achingly mental thought-pictures and scenes in those eloquent sentences; useful because bodies live in constant flux and borrowed forms that are transitory; the same beloved name a language-ghost we ourselves inhabit; the eight-four-two-one persons in a derbfine and temporary matter chained by this present mind, to inherited form of bodies and people disappearing in sequence, each a physical poem brought to every one of us - veiled at the entrance in shrouds of skin: we cannot remove them, our beginnings in..this absence you know; non-presence and big eye bang that cannot measure, only print ‘I’ who cannot speak separate from one’s own course. The dead who made us.
You recognize two distinct ways from the many one things you love, unequivocally appropriate, you’re poetically everything, all moments gone that makes a lineage not so much you, but the multitude who went before and live as you, in translation, not lent, borrowed, nor asked for, but imposed by an active force within, mirroring without, in perfect balance, in the space between what you make and what I make, in that intermingling reflectional text and conversation with of the other: wise perhaps insofar, as poetics, this is a relational art — it is what happens when utterance declared, not ‘I’ who speaks, but something borrowed that speaks for me, you who inhabits what construct, attached to our race of human s/he, is that genderless marker of formless state reason formed, which thus, because it is possible, to move thankfully within, they are us and we them, already gone — who shape-shifted into us, the ineffable form and formula few speak. It is through them life comes. The dead make us thus.
We’re the sidhe alive, buried silence of a faery troop, airing, fourteen streams of poetry composing me and you. They are us.
8-great-grandparents, it’s who we are, fourteen streams of poetry make a derbfine, the bass of clan-measure, cards, people marking who we are, all potential as the first and fifteenth roll, Danu’s dice decides.