There is a seance high amid the green of leaves, the self another sudden conspiracy, the sea somehow breathing deep blue sky. Words woven from the brush work of branches and the ceaseless wind. Voices caught aloft and lost among birds and clouds. This ocean so anxious and so lost above.
Heaven is cast into the depths, a ventriloquy of brittle pieces crushed and scattered to the stars. The sky sinks into a brooding blue, soon settles into its secret thoughts. There is a sense that if you had only learned to listen outside of your mind it would all come together. These whispered lessons and strange incantations, the clarity of legions boiled away to this certain essence. There is a sense that it would all appear, line after line, some poem or sermon written in flesh and chiton and cellulose. Alone, these moments crowd.
Skin and bone, ghost and blood, we are tethered to this insistent dust. Heart and soul, brain and mind, we are tangled in these fractured tongues. The sun goes down, the light goes out, and we are wide awake in this sullen dream. Someone missed or someone wanted. Someone forgotten or someone denied. These strays and phantoms, these misfires and ricochets. Someone scratching at the window when we know there is no-one there.