pockets filled with dust - crushed
petals and low glowing solar
detritus.
moored beside a dozen other
souls in the crown of a very
tall tree. for different reasons,
each of us immune to
the earth's pull.
a spiral staircase around the trunk;
I descend, alone and slowly.
a relief to reach solid ground but
in some way I may never
be able to put to words
even for myself,
there is a thick disappointment.
it is as if,
when my feet touched firmly,
I lost something
very dear.
i have been,
ever since,
interpreted by the wind as
something fallen -
something ever
half way
between.
saddled to
a slipping space -
perhaps most of us are stars
knocked off a loosening sky,
wounded by
the freefall -
amnesiac revenants
forgetting and forgotten.
if i reach deep enough
there's an anguish for which
i can't ascribe a source.
i can touch it,
if i grip it in fist
and rip -
if i palm the lofted bereft,
then punch through,
to shed the name and attachment,
and be left with
with what?
something beyond, something NOT,
not,
systemic recognizable repeat-ables
networked on a desert floor
crosshatched edgy fissured lines
fanning from an intuited
SOURCE
shadows slipping from frost;
arguments for the stillborn beauty
in geometric rhythms humming
intimately and deep into sight.
not this, but
a road cut through it all unbound
by end goal - simply for movement's
sake through and then past
the system - close to the rim
of gentle rest,
a frank yearning to be lost
in a forest dark
lit only within by a memory of light.
I return to the sky
and glow.
