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.
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
for Kala’s consumption
to don others then
too in 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