Where he comes from.
His stability.
The solid thing that he can feel
–there, just beneath the surface,
beneath the light, under the dawn,
that never ceases its movement,
it is ever-present change and potentiality,
his heaven within the earth, his peace,
his source.
Are your words still with you? Did you carry your stories deep into the night and leave them like luggage on a railway platform, an age and more down silver tracks, with just the wind, the stars, and leaves like dust blowing and hissing in the dark? This silence leaves a fading mark. The thing that took you left your face in bodies unknown to you, lace filaments tracing what the eyes of others cannot see: the ties that generation takes away; the look in eyes that cannot stay.
Part of a series. Not necessarily in any order.
Part 1 can be found here.
Part 2 can be found here.
What my friend Jeremy, of The Sand County, calls “boundary work.” Flirting with the edge of meaning, loss and memory.
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Do you feel the rain where you are?
Is there water there in the far
reaches of memory? Does time
fall through the air, like brittle rime
crusting the sea? Is this weather?
Tenuous shifts of the tethers
that tie us, each to our own place?
I stand in the rain, raise my face
to the falling sky as my sight
becomes a part of the pale light
that is left to us, and wonder
how we can all be so sundered
and still hold together all this
madness, beauty and darkness.
take them off like ropa vieja these years for Kala’s consumption only to don others then shedding those too in time and shedding time like dead skin worming through all this life forming through this and all that happens to it a worn hole I call my self bare toes tracing circles in the dust Inspired by the Light of J.H. White
