“Death is hidden in clocks… in my youth I chose as my motto
the ancient Latin maxim festina lente: make haste slowly.”
— Italo Calvino
In between the gaps
where sunlight reaches—
shades of green extend.
Shawls of fog dampen
the moving silence.
I surrendered to Time
as the backsides of towns
and tranquil boredom took me
closer to you and then back
home. Somewhere past the darkness
where distressed light of forests spill
into borders of thriving attraction,
I dreamt bravely. I named it joy.
It is necessary to permit error because information is not simply making the correct responses.
—Silvan Tomkins, from Shame and Its Sisters: A Silvan Tomkins Reader; “What Are Affects?”
What wildness still remains to be explored
and why haven’t I moved in that direction?
The horizon to the south cracks light.
It rained fish in Texarkana, Texas—
during the last days of December
and no one is afraid.
Imagine being actively denied
of embodied experiences.
That sense of knowing.
A clause (particular and separate).
“Peach blossom has a beautiful sensual pink, far from vulgar, most rare and private.”
—D.H. Lawrence, from Sketches of Etruscan Places; “Flowery Tuscany”
What is positive about fragmentation?
The rest of the trees stand naked, unashamed, claiming a brighter future.
When is it ok to stop remembering?
Crisis as a series, predictable, and, if you believe, a trick.
Should I accept the end is near? Or deny the possibility in the swaying shadows?