A tracing, a treatment, a dash to taste. Making place out of a hole in the earth, would be better if you had a lamp to read by. Jackson aims her warm and steady light straight at the surface of things, making plain the long shadows our taking makes. Like a prism held close to the eye, saltsitting unlocks with each turn of its angles: musical, medicinal, material inquiries into the drifts between extraction and recuperation, illness and cure.
A shift in temperature, a drop in climate, pink sound
The rain’s music always be more insistent than the drumming
across the way / and she don’t know the stomach from the
core of the earthworks, or the difference between mining and
the mine she’s made / This breathplace / A drum beat can get
off / lose its rhythm
Rain or no rain, it’s salinous cold and time to eat, to breathe
(it is rhythm)
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