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CvK |
The
Gardens of Xochimilco |
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Gardens and houses are not places, but
spin and go while apparitions unfold
in space another space, and other times in time. (We’d
be scorched in the vitality of
a garden’s moment if it were lived an eye-flick longer.) A
garden is not a place: we
enter by the russet path, we
enter a drop of water, and
drink at its centre green
clarities, we ascend by
the spiral of the hours to the peak of day. In
Xochimilco the gardens flow away
to the deaf drum of blood, the
sun and the hammer, the green embrace of vegetal arms. The world stands
half open, and I glimpsed the permanent brilliance. The
waters dazzle of bloodstained stone,
insect wings through cruel and
febrile light lighten the substance of
minerals and cacti, and quicksilver lizards
search the shade of adobe huts in
the bird-pierced space of Xochimilco |