Tarpit, by Zuzana Susu

I am not a silent poet

you reach your soul when tumbled in the tarpit, sticky
fingers, jetblack hairconditioner, granite walls hewn out,
of the earth, you have fallen in at night and your pulses
are scratched. you have reached the absolute depth:terra

yes then you touch your soul and artificial answers do
not help anymore. it is not easy to climb out of that pit
not becoming a laBrea artifact. and yet we’re bones and
flesh with thoughts (some) and feelings,skin primordially

under the laws ?, rather chaos, of astrophysics we thrive,
float through the universe being as alien as what we made
cinema about. extremophiles on earth living in water boiling
at 125° or under the ice at minus 45° (C.) or in sulfur coats

thrive nevertheless, on earth. in the deep ocean are rivers
which facilitate flourishing anoxide tubeworms, crabs, soft
waving algea, anaerobe micro-environments,where we never
thought to find life. this perhaps…

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