Sometimes Moving About In The Same Place

June 22, 2010

Sometimes moving about in the same place can, from a distance, resemble a type of pause. To arrive at trusting God, the All-might and the holding in the lap of quilts made of those cocoons shed, covers on covers on covers, not for the sake of concealing and unwrapping in expectation, simply, to endure the energies of expectation and planning, to land inside an axis breathing with rich sustenance, eggs that have no cataloging inside them, existences who have never heard of life and death.

I could feel the floor boards bending as they passed behind me, though the usual cracks and squeaks could not be heard. I got up and walked away, far into the night, the next morning, the next era…

Every fan in town had been left on, doors open, windows too, faucets running to their last drip drops and windmills too still to be real…

Tombstones in the town yard were collected together to resemble a loaf of bread and a giant porcelain basin of butter lay crystalline clear in the evening sun; no birds, though the crickets were amazingly classical…

Love had definitely been here, everything had changed and not a blade of grass was out of place.

I heard someone crying and looked everywhere, not a soul to be found; I took off my clothes, then my skin, then my muscles, then my bones, quietness and murmurs of destinations stepping into themselves, needing no tourists to say their names out loud, gathering all the curiosities that lay between the familiar and the unknown and lighting a candle, a sun, whispering while dozing awake upon an eyelash of God’s, floating in galactic depths, no reigns, no compass, no reward doubted and no suffering too bitter or too sweet…