It is in the angle of the shadow, it is in the sweep of the debris, flights of insects and schools of dust. The earth is tailed by a scintillating ellipsis of particular sects of mote and infinitesimals, these sections of milled infinites stacked like tortoises down below the foundations, logic never able to distinguish between metaphor and matter. Rise and fall a marble turning down the drain, every thought something mixing myth and perception, a hint of memory and a few closed circuits of magic pulsing under the rhythm of the devoted moon and the endless ocean. The waving all wind and limb, the cradle upon the rollick of the precipice, the lion and the lamb always at peace between meals.
So goes the stir in the soil, so goes the turn of the earth, the willful mauling of each mouthful as if the tongue were wing or song. A warbler singing in the sundown crown teaching what it is to warble, all the rest only the education of the guess, the general heft and hue as breath would at once imbue. Oh plea, oh prayer, oh cry in the night—! These are the names and these are the stars, and these are the skies we keep in common. These are the times and these are the trees and there are birds that will remain unseen that know me from sandal to skullcap. Embarrassments abound.
There are bounds, there are markers. The geography lost to the legend, the details missed on the map. Two years dead nearing the dot, the decedent long since flame and scattered ash, long since the labors of the plaited winds and the restless sea. A when to go with the where, this moment that persists in this stir of happenstance and atmosphere, the bone deep steepness of the arc of loss. The sheltered sun scattered through the yard and the imagery, green swaddled branches swaying to the clinging absence as momentum gathers towards more inevitable ends. So it settles, buried beneath the burbling walls of sound and the busy failings of the flesh. Hell forever happy to do its worse, and heaven only as good as your aim.
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