The last time I heard the word redemption was from a guy who then dropped a Springsteen impression in the Best Buy parking lot. Beyond, goldenrod, high tension wires. Vistas are temporarily unavailable.
He has an app that flounders me in dopples, in gangers. Hello! I do not wish to linger. I dream of revenge that rankles, of gongs bonging when the time is up. I have heard that you can download the app.
To set the process in motion I decide, arbitrarily, to use the three lines on page 62 as a post-snippet. Then, I begin at the bottom of page 61 and, working my way up to the title, arrive at the following poem:
Which is why I’ve kept my secret cold. Blank. Unforgiving. When I’m out walking it calls to me. Sounding high and strained. As if a string instrument gone out of tune. Something to reach toward. Frayed yet determined. It eats to my bone working its way beyond.
O sand O silk O galactic black wild—she dances naked, breathless, on the web-spread surfaces of Zodiacal light.
O exposed bruises, O love doubled into madness, madness into self murder
flood of sunlight bouncing off dust particles, ions in the coronal plasma, forbidden spectral emission lines—