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Saturday, January 22, 2011


She is moving over grasslands, facing downwards, looking under stones for something precious something known – feels her way by instinct . . . walking as birds do, casting her long shadow, seeing only things of shade . . .
now turns her body to face the sun, shadow also turning, spindly legs their beetle-black, withdraw – until unbidden fade, her own legs cold in rasping grass, she feels (but not enough), the agitated light, now folding in and out of cloud - and soon in stillness stays until, unbidden wind and muttering rain, a sound, no sound, no sooner night unfolding into stars, now out and into cloud, illume, but not enough, the ash grey dove grey sky, and she from stillness turns, by instinct goes – only this roar of nonexisting in her skull and this need to feel the world as

Densities 381

He never understood to love does not mean to touch
order and disorder were indistinguishable
unbroken and broken were likewise invisible
later he saw it as a mere bias or tendency for old people
to insist on one ordering of things
rather than a process
a flow of nomadic play things
changing places
all part of the great unknown
the first question he asked was:
what if a pit viper had legs
as long as an elephant's?
fishing for reassurance
yelling in to the void
and listening in vain for an echo
for the first time

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Densities 375

still glowing from a fine performance
in front of a packed house
with unexpected superlatives
over punch afterwards
there is something about kicking ass isn't there?
blowing them away
listening to the echo of laughter's victory over tea
until you fade into the color of the carpet
and the numbers at the door
resign themselves to blushing sums
I cleaned dinner
and cooked the house
I didn't expect an invitation