Monday, August 8, 2011


The moon was already high in the apostate sky when the day bled away. Dusk sang out, full-throated and ready to devour the world. Stars awoke along their farther axis, sifted through the slippery atmosphere. Sweat and smoke and the scent of pine needles. The night another aroma carried on the breeze.

There is a crispness in the water, a bite to the ice. The tall plastic glass perspires, clouted by the heat of the room, summoning the very moisture from the air. I think of fogged mirrors, the density of breath against glass. Train windows and steamed glasses, seasons of gathered life and varied temperature. The transition from climate control to climate. I swallow cold water, living the difference between heat and chill.

It is the world allowed rather than the world won. The distinctions we create weighed over those we deny, strata incurred through abandoning sight for vision, nature for conceit. Word after word, philosophy after philosophy, we explain ourselves away. Hunger and thirst, work and respite, love and endurance. Our lives so clean and cluttered. Our lives caught on the breeze.

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