Tag: light

true confessions

at the killing hour

  1.  Hello. I am this being before you, embodied.
  2. I am made of flesh. I am being enfleshed.
  3. Which by extension makes me not quite up to muster &  by definition a slow being. 
  4. A fact that forces an admission: how flesh is a slow, as far as substances go. Yesterday, driving home in traffic, I listened to a story (in real time) about the development of data transfer methods via photon. It was old news by the time I heard it. And yet.
  5. My flesh, such as it is, will never travel at the speed of light. And yet, being human, I am one part body and the rest of me is story.
  6. In one of these, I dream of a constant beginning at first light.
  7. In another, I fly.
  8. In another, I am the dead, returned. Sometimes winged. With a choral entourage.
  9. I suspect you are, too. 
  10. So listen. To this question, please.  If I sing to you from the dark place where we hide, waiting, will you please shine me home?
  1.  [and beyond]  for once you surpass ten steps you are surely beyond the beyonds

and yet

I know you are a stranger here, too, so by the light of you I become friend. 

Come, friend. We have places to go. 

They are dark now, until we arrive. 

We may not travel at the speed of light, but this love is a shining thing. 

What if now is time to bring it out? 

I have no answers, only this slow form.

Take it now and let us go.

celestial bodies

uncertain orbit

Given enough practice, a body
will adapt to almost anything.

What follows adaptation are
impressions filtered through
tether by which body learns
to disconnect.

Notice the intensity & velocity
of spin, point being to propel
other bodies into orbit around
that central heat.

The quiet was brief
&
when done, she thought:

Here come lamentations,
returning.

plant talk

underheard

Inert, you said, in our direction.
Unfeeling, without a brain.
We were eating light, making green.
Involved as this was, we still made efforts to translate for you.
You plugged your ears, turned eyes to the cutting glow in your hands.
Working, you said, of what you were doing. We wondered, at what?
You did not seem to have a taste for light and the dark frightened you.
Here, we offered, waving. You turned away.

Cat Talk

Purr, an example

Like yes but don’t get too close. Yet. Yes, but don’t touch me. Until now. Yes, you but I don’t entirely trust anyone. Yes, but I need and need. Yes, but time. But here. But possibly unsafe. I go again. I will go. This window, though. The long slant of light. I fold myself into it. To be without holding my breath for what’s next. This breath, I let it go.

Prize

Beyond imagination

You think a foothold is what you want, but maybe not.
Who needs to hold when you can flash away, a fish?
Swimming off now. When I awaken, I will remember
but not flinch, still tired but able to follow but not as
solid, to do the next part in dream and here is one
where the pearl of a long illness rolls itself
into light.

The Fastening

Of elements.

Beneath waving drapes of midnight, these lines
draw us out in the swell where the first caught hook
leaves the longest scar. No, love. You cannot go
back but to the opening or you lose it all to danger
us in this work of finding what the cynic masks
until mourning song against memory’s loss, by
turning heads to the young at the breast to owl
until we catch ourselves on trees. No we are not
birds we must ask for song first also love and
what comes suggests we are light, lighting
the eye back to her first sound and the shine
that preceded too the open mouth that
meant the beginning of you.

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