A distance reduced to miles where between the duet of two points lays a gulf. I will look out toward a sky that meets a sea. I will see nothing but a seamless pane upon endless horizons where birds drop one by one. A thin line where red blips in the night will flash, rhythmically etching afterimages of a code. I will not understand because of a fracture in the transmission filtered through a determined hum. Words become vague focal points in a cacophony of signals and garbled misrepresentations. With my good ear, a tinfoil hat, and a lightning rod I climb to higher ground to tune in as a final act against the swell of a tide. Where the sweep displaces two points farther. Where the flare can only be seen by one.
Away from the crowd and out into the streets we were standing in ones and twos. Arms reaching and blind grasps towards the limits of sequece as lines diverge and converge plotting maps above our heads. Stray light is a midway station between sky and the earth hurtling just out of view as we searched a slow moving star. We tracked the expanse of the night and in four minutes time, the invisible was made visible to our naked eyes. It was so small from this vantage point, and yet, it was I who felt reduced. That was when I came looking for you, as if your presence, just another tangent line, could make me feel larger within a basin of twilight.
And it hums molecules,
that are swelling weightless upon the air
And it writes a tracing,
of motions paced from an exhausted night
And it knows a closeness,
that becomes immeasurable distances
And it grasps for internal storms,
making calm within an empty hand
And it saves the spirit,
in an aviary adrift on the arbor
And it waits to know,
if our certainties are more than lambent virtues
And it holds the warmth,
as two sticks abrade spark into a fire
And it becomes a branded heart,
into the flesh of an empty hand
Bathed in bright-dark
as incandescence blaze
and I wash up
within a landlocked
Logic talks down heart
is just as impossible
We were seeking the river but found it in the trees
suspended cocoons of glimmering silk that choked
at the branches
a reminder against remaining hushed
for too long
or not to deviate from the footpaths
A gemini without a twin has to exist for two in order to support their phantom half. To feel alone as a child, especially for an only child, is a normal behavior manifesting in the constant seeking of company to balance a childhood of solitude. And so we embrace imaginary worlds, with imaginary friends. To carry that quest into adulthood is suspicious of an arrested development leading to a lifetime of groping in the dark for a vaporous someone. Still alone when we reach out to embrace the empty air and with every loss chipping away until it erodes under their feet. Each loss a devastation where their air fans at fires and turns waters into tides. Without a sense of solid earth we each suffer.
scorch and smolder
breaths fires to burn
upon eastern plains
with growing anticipation
of august reunions
glimmers of stars
or floating ash
materialize before me
and the grass
it will have been restored for a time
That dark light
that falls from the stars
Such an inverse
like ash fallen from aether
upon a tangled sea
These German landscapes
they could be Kansas
With such tidy rows
and spit us out
to prove truth in our trivial
That dark light
that falls from the stars
Hums a cicada song
or is it a drone of telegraph wire
upon the plain
where sunflowers grow
and brush fires efface all
You had said that the range
was the small of a woman’s back.
And the indians, they had said
these were the breasts of the earth.
But I chose never to see it, not that way.
Instead, transfixed on the vastness of that valley.
A paleness, something like sandstone.
Such a small thing that made us feel at home.
No matter the time of day,
there is a warmth to that light.
A light spread open and wide and welcoming.
But the dryness and the constant moan,
It threatens our existence, especially at night.
The tarps they rage and even the trees, in a slow burn, seek a moment of placidity.
Even the trees know, it won’t come.
At least not until morning, when the first light reaches the Spanish Peaks.