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Onoma Feb 2021
there is a tree narrow

enough for a wood.

to reap a snow around

indefinition.

the trunk of Her ankle.

holed-up white, with

wind and cessation.

incontrovertible water.

though it appears so.

white.
Onoma Feb 2021
as impressions shorten their form,

an owl leaves daylight suddenly.

flattening its wings over an Ocean,

all-ways light.

alighting at your window, one

motion free from stillness.

so You can hear the sound contradicted

by the customariness of nothing fathomed.

there's something that worries over

an owl that resurrects daylight on a

crooked limb.

the speed of acceptance deemed late.

the owl was there once...

leaving out everything.

And would you know it?

an owl's downcurved beak smiled

back...reappearing.

falling down lifelessly over branches

that redrew the most vehement disappearances.
Onoma Jan 2021
when the land has locked its jaw,

and starving recesses fight to get

loose, only the wind breaks free.

blowing away from what froze it

clear, watching January choose a

place to die alone.

rumbling in the pits of wolves'

stomachs, shadowing and shadowed

by the place January chose to die alone.

their darkening magic severe enough

to cast out what it casts--driven on all

fours through trackless acts of disappearance.

the trees see nothing of this, coldly burning

at their own stakes, having been stripped bare...

their congregations sway from time to time.

the fall and the spread of nothing, clear from

the throats of wolves...rising.

a sickly yellow arena, with last-leg effulgence

comes around to their howls, and hangs there

as the pithy of survival.
Onoma Jan 2021
there's a cold in the

grey outside, perspectively

sectioned off.

its breathy paint keeps

running down and

across frozen surfaces.

there's a window to it,

which drifts--oddly enough

to become two dimensionally

sequestered in walls.
Onoma Jan 2021
one night outside of itself--

it came to me a pitch too black.

open eyes might as well of been

closed, and vice versa.

the first thing that came to our mind

was death, which did not pass.

if it was to be survived, it would come

through the intervention of time...

slowly or speedily creeping out of its

unseen hole.

as with the boundaries of desolation

made out by a will to life, where

aloneness takes on the character of

otherness, absent from that company.

so was it night or death, or other that

filled in the blanks of aloneness as it

withdrew its thrall?

what was left there was a refuge which

had sought a refuge from what sought

it, and what came together knew it would

never be alone again--even though that's

all it was.
Onoma Jan 2021
the drawn parallels of birds...

their countercurrents of flow

colored, stark visibilities.

their patterns recognized against

blue seals being opened.

inherent flights always equidistant

to the distanceless, their lifelong calls...

nondifferential songs composed

by other lifelong calls.

an inmost vibration made common,

thus recognized...returned from

branches that fall and regrow.

as if pointing the way.
Onoma Dec 2020
those

solitary poles in the axial

spin of their snow globe.

haloed convenants clustering

anonymous eyes, broadcasting

a running channel of real time

dream.

stranger than a passerby, stranger

still the lonely viewer of the screen.

exposure and nonexposure to

an interplay of elements beyond

weather, yet being driven by the force

behind it all.

were it that a passerby would stop

and look up at a snowcam, with the

feeling of being looked at by a stranger.

to the astonishment of a lonely viewer,

an intimate spell of white suspends

the snowflakes.

an untranslatable moment, with no

lapse but the seeming release of snowflakes

thereafter...

and an unbroken spell.
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