Blooms of freezing breath semi-precious hay-bale days roll ahead and chase from behind. Anything foot printing nowdays, I want. A countryside of mercy.
Talking softer than I did back then, like a low res tree line leaning into Sunday sky. First snow. Deep and muffled. Pressed and resting. Burrowed. Being
can be an effort, can be a response to distance, can be I’m not ashamed of lost luster, and confess nostalgia for this piece of place, this monocrop of stubbled pheasant cry. First glance, it’s opposite
of chaos. Second glance, its ways of letting go, widening in every direction. Cartography of endless, this: names are a walk through holes, a gaze looking to land the secret no one tells at the start. A circle story. Here
in the nook I keep, prairie holds down seeds buried for someone else. A new, stranger heart to wear out.
What By Now Is Pretty Much Ritual
Or put it this way: to keep falling down, love the ocean, the potential of rhythm, the sway. I don’t need you, I don’t need you, I need only
the notion of you. Fill silence, I suppose, because it’s what we do,
adore what isn’t there.
Same name, same vessel, dilapidated and moored, yet variously lost. Reeds and grass reach for warmth, instead get wind. Gone isn’t we never existed, gone is both exist as we were before. And so
treasure moves from land to hand. Generosity ends, it always does, and thunder
roves. Inkling becomes want, becomes what we have, unnoticed,
like a sea story set on a prairie that used to be sea. Green furrow, widening to sky.