The voice of the age is a fragment, still jealous of fireflies, starlight; still confused about the first dead goldfish on a stage stripped of shadows, where shadow itself is barred, where the bars themselves leave no shadow, erased by floodlights on every side.
There are more words for the heart and what’s in it, for the world and what’s in it––and more still, maybe, for what isn’t anymore, but they keep getting disappeared in the moments for their imagined entrances in the rest of the sentences we keep starting by these ghost-limbed reflexes to word what we meant to declare, or ask, or exclaim with a full-throated yell.
Subjects lose their organizing action, and the actions continue, amputated from memory centers, and wherever the suspended would-be actors are, it must be somewhere and not the opposite of somewhere. As in, nowhere. As in, everywhere. As in, here.
Speaking of which, is another fragment. Who is here? Who breathes? Or what.
The opening phrase (“The voice of the age is a fragment“) comes from Brenda Hillman’s ‘[to the voice of the age]’.