From my front porch I see that the hills are burning. A burning crown and a flag of drowsy smoke. The sun so long ago swept away into the deepening east. It is a condition of the season here. Another dangerous sign particular to the time.
We cannot help but read into these things. We cannot help but to invent a bending towards our ends. We trade away an intensity of perception for a breadth of vision. We are the stubborn and pliant lenses of the language where we grew. The telescope and the dictionary. The documentary and the dream.
You can't help but blaze away in my thinking. You can't help but make the world in your wake. Mine just another of the ten thousand longings that cling to your skin. My huddled fantasies only proof of your shine. The weight of the world a measure of how quickly it burns out. We are only what the light confides.
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