Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Shadows Are Fins

All block gatherings, this solitude that puts heart in my feet. Am I my own companion, am I the one who sees or the one who obscures? This part of me that rivals my bones, is it my wobble of thought? I shadow my face in the moon and then the moon goes away. Just an icon. Then time itself whistles on a line. Time whistles on a line. Time is my known known, but I am in the midst of it so there is only getting out, or sleep. In the weeds we fell, green and wet in darkness, next to our hoping bed. Then the crushing sounds. We, you, me, all these eyes, all these parties that want to get to the bottom. A hard thing is to heft the weight of being without lights to feel around. The sparking blue, crackling the continuous question. Always in some fight, I shadow myself along the breakline of dawn. I am here in the last gilded glimmer of night. I am not here. There is only this tendency to plan, to run and be stone.

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