the translation of static (rev 1)

There are stars in cornfields called fireflies. The moon is ventriloquial for the sun. Even open screened windows keep tigers out. 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: your voice caught in a feedback knot, a collapsed map of a cemetery of suicides, a body broken into many countries, a fistful of sugar that I pour in your mouth. 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.