The moon is the moon, regardless. Some things are certain, say, great bodies of water, stark mountains— I return to them as I return to you, a pilgrim. That is not to say I believe in much, only that some things are too familiar to deny, even this moon, half -eclipsed, playing at garnet, even you, now far again, but still known, always known, there is a landscape, a knowledge, that cannot be denied— when I […]
Putting away the sun dresses, the summer has carried us here– there’s an edge in the sky, a mix of blue with hard tin, wan through half-shut blinds as the window wiper descends in a perilous descant. Some movements are immovable, their arc and conclusions, fixed.
It’s too night, unloved black-cat black, as inked punctuation, looped pauses and finalities, or more like shaped as a glass, not hollow, but wanting. A night is a vessel, a word, an arrival, still, the shore never ceases to surprise me, and neither does the sea.
Monday morning mountain comedown with sunburnt lips and aching legs in comparison to the alpine the city is mundane with its colorless clouds and effortless grades it all seemed so clear the higher I climbed even the goat trails the bushwacking of trees the unstable scree slopes I only know how to enjoy what it seems I’ve earned even last night I saw a glacier field approaching in my dream until turning back I woke–
Late mornings lost hours lashings of rain on the faux window deck– the air is cooler now easy to breathe in but being more liquid more difficult to grasp– like the concept of letting a summer go in peace– the fires are finally now starting to ebb out but still I clutch it in tight fingers like some scratchy worn blanket comforting in its discomfort like how I even regret my regrets–
No moon for all this rain– I’d almost forgotten how to say it, how the night sounds on the eaves, a fallen world, the maples heavy with it, the pines’ roots re-establishing themselves, how quickly we all forget. I had a life before this, with space enough, and didn’t want for much, there were the stars, the moon, and other silent sentinels, some emptiness but I can’t quite remember how hollow it felt, the thought of you spills in, […]
Another city night, velvet -textured, wine-hued, here on the roof deck, in a glass bowl of new construction– the sharp angles of stilled cranes flashing intermittent red– and sometimes a night is just peaceful, I don’t know what distinguishes it except this soft, late, light, the sky that settles in like an always -faithful tide, a sense of containment, yet kind, and spacious–
What a momentous act to fold the shirt and to place it in the wardrobe and such a long long time since I’ve had such latitude so why do I go about thin-voiced bird-ish asking may I may I may I befuddled but like some happier Kafka I seem to have woken up with wings [again thank you all for kind comments– looking forward to catching up on them shortly!]
Completely dehisced from known land from maps and plans past the limit of margins waking up now is like being on a boat– Where has the night delivered me? [Apologies for general lack of posting and responding to comments, in the process of moving and with variable wifi access!]
[Descant] A strange thing, this geometric city living. The night sky is always pink here, with residual heat— I’ve never seen a star, only the boxy glow of the higher high-rise, the landing lights of planes swallowed up by clouds (I assume) no birds, no breeze, just isolated trees and the audible gradients of interminable descent, and I always wake up tired. Selah.
OPTIONAL POETRY 