Thursday, May 13, 2021
a language of holes, the absence of stone, a patchworked fabric of clouds, dappled grey omen, beams of light, reflections off a passing planes, an answer: a language of openings, a series of concentric circles held together by the wind, the slightest breeze catching on, getting caught up on the fear of falling, finding old notes: a language of possibility, that mixed-up grammar breathed into the air, broken out of, the openings we find, weekend trips, hikes through fields of mustard flower, the smell of persimmon muffins: a language of awakening, descending, each utterance a step down a spiral staircase made of birch, then redwood, then cedar, towards the same room with the invisible door, the small pile of stones, the tiny specks of purple underfoot, an afternoon nap: a language of not showing up, the absence that is made again and again, receding, tide pools and the sea, black ink, a small river of lights, a dream of arriving: a language of unfurling, the thousand-colored fern, the history we have together, walking through a family home, ropes unraveling, spicy fried chicken, internet radio in an hour of traffic: a language of waiting, asking for more, needy dogs, secret dates, leftovers on the second shelf in the fridge, trout roe, birthdays, quiet streets, frames broken just after coming together: a language of constellations, photographs, the memory of an afternoon sitting on the park, leaning towards each other, sitting alone on the grass, the wailing wind, the deep current, imagined wolves: a language of summertime, the same unravelings, new t-shirts, a wobbling ice tray, cancelled plans, missed calls, errands to pick up hard drives, seltzer, hugging goodbye twice, the smallest opening in the clouds: a language somewhere
at May 13, 2021
There are photographs and miles of thread, a needle pushing tiny divots into paper, a vial of blue ink and a video of the sky. Each morning ...