Shadow as proof of memory: the indistinct light spilling on the tablework together with smears of water. The smell of hair on his skin now is engraved as lesson. At the tip of her tongue is strange wonder. Said this inner life when it starts to crumble, you are witnessed in the soar. Bedraggled through the slope of the street, a hand, or a vestige.
Her bony prominences of hand kneaded to retain as memory – to be swallowed by the full procession after; stroke as compromise: as if mapping all out. This is not how it should happen. It would happen when a safe distance is maintained by two bodies: the other sleuthing, the other moving in finite directions. An end will be revelry.
– took whatever it was that cannot be contained by the body. Remember first when you took the dive
into the water, as if never to return again, together with silent fish and errant current.
Underneath the blue, light still casts shadow in interstices. Conveying weight
in water – your mouth as conduit, my body as land for the till and clearing. Or my longing. Or a soon to be discovered ambiguity. Skimming through your moving imperatives, telling me you cannot
commit to quantum movements. That in that event, the world will throw you
syncopated images, that it will give rise to your hiding altitude and lob you to vertigo.
Detachment as question. They must run. They must remain fugitives – to be unseen by the rest, and only themselves know their seams, symmetries, contours even in absences. Even the sky now is engorged with cirrus. Soon, like half-truth, or wildfire brash against green, the pallor will deface the atmosphere and give it unction of rain. Must they be reminded that they should run.
But you are in a city, and it is impossible to not be thrown out of line by another figure. Names will be given. Directories will be solicited. Voice necessary to halve
this blatant quiet. And then to remind you of your sudden place, they will build a map
or a bridge with their arms outstretched into the sky, looking at you with life brimming through
their eyes – the smoke of your departure once again curling in its fetal nature
against their brows. Everything you do and undo is a forecast of some liminal finality,
as if all of this is birthed by the same oblivion – and that all forgetfulness feels that same in different
cities that may or may not know your name. And that in changing season, there will
always be
a hand that will be held even in its tiniest detail – all of the shadows once
cast by your small body drunk in its proud altitude – we both
know whose hand I am thinking of
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Shadow as proof of memory: the indistinct light spilling on the tablework together with smears of water. The smell of hair on his skin now is engraved as lesson. At the tip of her tongue is strange wonder. Said this inner life when it starts to crumble, you are witnessed in the soar. Bedraggled through the slope of the street, a hand, or a vestige.
Her bony prominences of hand kneaded to retain as memory – to be swallowed by the full procession after; stroke as compromise: as if mapping all out. This is not how it should happen. It would happen when a safe distance is maintained by two bodies: the other sleuthing, the other moving in finite directions. An end will be revelry.
– took whatever it was that cannot be contained by the body. Remember first when you took the dive
into the water, as if never to return again, together with silent fish and errant current.
Underneath the blue, light still casts shadow in interstices. Conveying weight
in water – your mouth as conduit, my body as land for the till and clearing. Or my longing. Or a soon to be discovered ambiguity. Skimming through your moving imperatives, telling me you cannot
commit to quantum movements. That in that event, the world will throw you
syncopated images, that it will give rise to your hiding altitude and lob you to vertigo.
Detachment as question. They must run. They must remain fugitives – to be unseen by the rest, and only themselves know their seams, symmetries, contours even in absences. Even the sky now is engorged with cirrus. Soon, like half-truth, or wildfire brash against green, the pallor will deface the atmosphere and give it unction of rain. Must they be reminded that they should run.
But you are in a city, and it is impossible to not be thrown out of line by another figure. Names will be given. Directories will be solicited. Voice necessary to halve
this blatant quiet. And then to remind you of your sudden place, they will build a map
or a bridge with their arms outstretched into the sky, looking at you with life brimming through
their eyes – the smoke of your departure once again curling in its fetal nature
against their brows. Everything you do and undo is a forecast of some liminal finality,
as if all of this is birthed by the same oblivion – and that all forgetfulness feels that same in different
cities that may or may not know your name. And that in changing season, there will
always be
a hand that will be held even in its tiniest detail – all of the shadows once
cast by your small body drunk in its proud altitude – we both
know whose hand I am thinking of
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