the translation of static (rev 2)

There are stars in cornfields called fireflies. The moon is ventriloquial for the sun. There are love affairs that are like a wind caught between roofs. The trunk of a Russian olive tree is wrapped in chicken wire so it won't sag. Any explosion births a new language, although it can never be said aloud. In London, there is a hypothetical museum with a curator who is a horse in fairy tales. These are my contents, wrapped in clean linens: the fortissimo of your voice caught in a feedback knot, a benediction said for me in code, a body broken into many countries, a heart that is nothing but a small fist of agonies. The mute pressure of dusk rises. These are the sedimentary years, when who I am drifts down into the rusty wreck of who I used to be.