Stealth and the need to breathe unscavanged
air abound as the whole world is split
by black wires and the lightningstrike bare branches of trees.
A wealth of color lights below in the starestark
early hours, the wind an unwinding within
the measured strokes of wings. This and the dead are
each day. Find vanity in the things the sun loves,
find life where ever the living are careless. Whether
there are tombstones, you remember them as
tracing slivers and gleam, as rawbone and steam:
not a glimmer of approval, not a kiss of malice.
Who wants to know this bit of horizon as the sky
begins to glow at dawn? Who wants to know the price
of red and orange and questions left to answer?
There are no records kept of anything important,
all stored uncaring in the myths of a thousand
awkward motions, a thousand careless sounds. Only soul
survives, high in periphery, feathers and harsh song:
alive in silhouette, history lingers.
Monday, January 7, 2013
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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 ...
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The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
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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 ...
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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...
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