visible

You ask me for the color it depends on the end of the spectrum. You ask me what I see, I see a bunch of words rushing to inhabit whatever me is seeing. You can see the problem. Me getting asked questions. Generally my attention is spent just trying not to run into stuff, so asking is asking a lot. I’m barely extant as it is— now I have to be heard and seen?! The bandwidth isn’t giving anything away.

The afternoon is all warm winds and April grays, soft songs and porch chimes, dogs dashing and children’s screams. The yard is overgrown with sprouted bird seed and seasonal weeds, squirrel and sparrow prone despite all the affiliated carnivores, littered with falcon stripped bones and feathers. The hour plods, laden with raucous dogs and shrill preschoolers, careless traffic and gravid shadows. The wind rises and a cooling closes in.

I write this out of wild passion and plodding hobby. I write this on a thumbstruck tablet stuck on my front porch perch. I write this like blown ocher around my hand in some pitch lit down below, like some flag left on the moon. This is the translation of my dissipation, the pattern I played out. Even as I fall, I mark the arc. Even as I disappear, I am something seen.