Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge c/o DMF at synthetic zero
I want to tell you what’s difficult to admit,
that I left home.
Change of mother tongue between us activates an
immunity, margin where dwelling and travel are
not distinct.
Artifacts throw themselves toward light without
becoming signification.
Telling you is not an edge of the light.
There’s no margin of a shadow to imply interior.
In my childhood house was a deep porch covered
with vines.
Look past our silhouette to silhouettes (like shadows)
of guests arriving in a bright yard.
Light in the next room falls on her, as she bends to
kiss you.
Skylight pours down, then covers the mud wall,
like cloth.
I observe a lighted field seem to hang in space in
front of me.
Speaking, not filling in, surface intent, is a cabinet
of artifacts, comparisons, incongruity.
environmental critique 