Some days we find ourselves between obsessions. Some days imagination strains. Gaze towards the hill line, bathed in the settled sun. Listen to the work of limb and feather. A song glides upon an updraft. The thoughts just drift or drown.
The lost continent arises from the glibly familiar, the world ignored while chasing ghosts and writing reasons. The scent of heat, the cast of dust. The world as it tumbles around its bonded star, the whirring reoccurrence of day and night into the broad perpetuity. The impotence of description in witness of the thing itself.
I would say I wandered true. I would say I found a path for walking. The day had little interest in any ebb or flow, no course to cry for when it knew I was in the wrong. Sweat and sunburn and the direction of dogs. Whatever words I shed will wear down and ring untrue. The things we claim supplanted by the things we do, history always writing itself obsolete. Whatever tracks I leave will lose their place and wear out any welcome.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
simmer
The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk ...
-
The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
-
So it is the scintillance of wind and leaf, abundant boughs swaying in the long last light as the sun sets off and the world falls away. So ...
-
There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the collapse throughout the collateral, the drag of the earth’s core gripping...
No comments:
Post a Comment