There is a cold endless stillness that seems to
yet connect my quiddity.
A literature of Moss, lichens on the empty half stump near the
path, pale pale green fractures decomposing bark like black velveteen after the
rain. Shards of the day, lapwing sounds.
My fingers move slowly along November's earth loam fertile in
stillness, damp mushroom rot smell of dank closing in towards the fault. I slip
past the verticals to the rocks while catching something flitting through the
briars concerning the question surrounding surrounding surrounding. The woods
bathed in a sea green light limns a cold, endlessly breathing stillness which
seems to connect to my growing awareness of the possibilities of the escalator.
Down.
Sleeping laburnum hides striations, chilled margins, now
limestone to the cordillera - quartz, feldspar slowed to a crystallized halt.
Descend scenic root to deep strata.
Thermal depths with crystalline metamorphic layers reaching to
sleeping sentience. Warmth of friction plates, thermal rifts and fissures and a
gentle subduction in the great slow down time, a fractured unconscious calculus.
Down to the sea conscious membrane.
Where the river slips pewter on gelatin silver. Now, my photo-
etched memories come one by one, a sense of fathoming all this before. That such
a place should be a lurk. Green pale luminous green sea surrounding waters
forever breathing, I can trace the line that begins from my point of entry along
the shore, trolling sometime north along an inconsolable margin to the watery
corollary washing on breath shore.
Disturbances along the marginalia, the flora and fauna a
phenomenology of teeth and fringes. Tiny annihilations measured out in obscure
rhythms where the spectator never goes. My mind slips easily into the limbs of a
possibility that the eternal perpetrator lurks hardly by.
A quid for a quaff at the Quip & Quill.
Smokey hall conceals a ballroom high note, down to the lower
corner where the perpetual spectator is spinning querulous sympathies. After a
nervous unspooling, all energies agree, only the description creates a vacuum.
"What has no boundaries, no ends and one must go faster than the
speed of light to get all the way around before it ends."
Later, before the conversation became too discriminating,
attentions were drawn to the rosy north window. A glassed in sense of river
ocean forest even a mountain or two became central to a situated study of the
measured surface, ripples lapping around stones, cobbles in parentheses
revealing the geometer's prank.
Charmed.
And even strange. But now to the crux. This interested me, all
it seemed I had to do was to remember all the intentions that
fell from the verge of uncertainty. I had only to hold up a mirror and would be
made party to a rich topography. Tiny pairs of words, quadrillions of syllables,
rhythms of rhythms arranged in sentiences. A way I suppose of being able to
wander in the wry zones and hold my own.
But the willful molecules deferred, and declined to go beyond the
measure whose duration resides in a cold crucible.
In the purple wanings, the elements watched the horizon becoming
line becoming.
