After Baudelaire: “Nature is a temple”

If a line leafs, as leaves follow flowers

fading before they have ever happened,

that is spring, and this is language.

A simultaneity happens that has never happened —

speaking to you now of magnolias

edging brown before description —

before description allows itself to be enacted

before magnolias transition from winter bud, possibly

to scatter on sidewalk. Before us, before we

have walked over them before us. They develop in

time that moves through us, even as we move against

it, losing a day as we float backward past datelines and

equators, in time that moves whether in space or in motion

that time is in our body, and while in our minds, which

are energies made of an incessant construction of the various

entities of our body rubbing against each other in constant

reorganization of combustion and transmission — even in

our mind-energies, there is only simultaneity — our multiple

consciousness frames events as one happening relational, the trip

10 years ago jostles the plan for employment — memory

is future — we remember as to be able to travel forward — if

we do not, would not, dwell in the past we become disorganized

our parts no longer able to communicate: communication depends on

electrical flash mobilized from pt. A to pt. B and instantly back

again creating a simultaneous line of both and all directions,

even affecting all the points, creating not a circle but a woven

sphere within spheres and triangle and all ovoid, rectangles, elliptical —

cohered into a cone that travelled through by plane then wears

on the body, again the body is time in that these instantaneous,

multidirectional, simultaneous communiqués show by their

energies, or no, there is no cause right now to find. Instead, display

what seems to be a passage of time thru the body, but the

body is time — nothing passes through it, time is not a river

but the body in beautiful entropy, is of it, not just in it,

Cannot be described in conjunction or as other.

Just body/time without equal sign. But nature is a temple,

filled with living pillars, the flat plane passes through the cone

made of many geometric parts, the cone is altered, the plane

has passed through and has not happened yet, the plane is memory

and the cone is what is being assembled, always under construction,

a collection of tangents, and as plane passes through, small pieces

cling to it, journeying elsewhere and leaving cone eroded, as

living pillars speak in blurry languages, what they say is mistranslated

they may be in the temple of nature, or of it, or the temple is

where time becomes the entity we always imagined it to be,

something separate and comprehensible in that separation

from us, to be able to stand apart like a pillar and observe, even if

for one second, a second occurring with all the other seconds

around it, companionably, to make a minute that occurs with

all the other minutes, to take a hold of, like grabbing a river,

That which exactly what it is not and therefore maybe might be.

The space between eye and eye elided in transmission

of gazing at self in a mirror and looking once and

at the other organ of vision, the brain compensates and reaches

conclusion before induction has even laddered.