I saw myself in the evening and I saw myself at dawn. I even thought I saw myself as Venus wandered on

I looked down at the soil, at the gillyflowers, at the stock, but their scent was just too cloying so I began to walk

I came across a mine filled with rubies and gold but found the darkness heavy and far too empty and cold

I heard some voices whispering down a dusty road and more flowers seemed to bloom with every uttered word. I heard them getting closer so opposite I strode and I wound up in a field scattered with glass it was only then that I noticed just how much time had passed

I saw myself in the evening, I saw myself at dawn and then I finally realized that at last, in all her glory, Venus had finally passed.

Round little Mulberry leaves. Park green, mean, and shining like a sparrow’s beady eyes. Smooth edges and veiny leaves shifting under a summer gust. Gently tucked behind a blinding white PVC fence in its little terraced jungle world.

September again, a lazy river pathway to October. Not much different from August here minus the dwindling daylight hours. I try to drink from the river by dipping my cup. Submerging it time and time again—restless.

Little leaves on the surface and a million dabs of light dance there too. I quickly bring the cup up to my mouth in an attempt to drink from it—closing my eyes in the process. In anticipation. Only to find it empty once again.

I dip, submerge, I feel the water flow around my hands (I know it’s real, I know it’s real) repeating my last steps right down to the emptiness. The lazy river keeps moving and I stay kneeling at its banks in the setting sun—one with the river but never fully submerged and never allowed to drink from it.

A reality so sharp that it hurts. Let me be like an olm so accustomed to everything leaving, falling apart, mending itself, and tearing itself apart again that I no longer need eyes to see that which I know will inevitably happen over and over.

Submerged in cold cave water; wading hands--slow moving and no longer paddling about like a drowning man. In the darkness of environment and of loss of a kind of overwhelming sight this is all that matters. A blunted reality diluted down to what is ultimately real.

On my way out into the yard (always the yard) I slip over the threshold. Shoes slipped on subconsciously. Imprinted habits stored somewhere unknown. At the cliff below the lip of the threshold a pile of shoes and their rubbery texture break my fall but they’re in the way. They’re always in the way. A tangled bunch of laces, knots and, aglets so much complicated than my pair of flip flops. I consciously step on the pile. Maybe out of spite, anger. With this motion completed, I look down at my own shoes only to see that they’re on the wrong feet. Yet, as wrong as it may seem, I leave them as they are.