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| outbound forever till it hits your eye and ends, a green glow, all you see, extinguished starlight, starlight only. Focused by stone, cleaved, bruted, brilliant-cut. No stone like that exists, before 1600. No world--until us--in chains of glass, hostage to signal: all clearness & purity, fidelity, integrity, traits of the channel, its internal reflection. Objects are answers, unspoken collusions of humans with the earth as it turns, as it culminates in night-skies on Neptune, Earth as it sweeps by, or is swept--it depends where you are--by schools of light, loose, adrift in the empty aisles of the cosmos: this, their care--the artisans--their persistent reverence for error, mis-fit; fabulists of silica, water, what we are, glassware, charcoal, starlight only; forgers of green, translucent stones that are the structure of all question. |
