August was ripe off the city. The view was light grey above dark, separated by a line of orange lights, an imaginary three day January thaw, Greenland left and right and far ahead in the dusk, the whale-oil rush sound, the Lord’s face large and luminant, blighting our harbingers of spring, mystery of the missing ships, mud drawn on stone.
The ordinary looms in the air – a deliberate slow wide scene, same sound of bees sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form to a higher level. Then new morning with red birds. It is late. Listen to stars turning in eternity, in lazy gardens with cushions and cool breezes.
Everything at night is a silence you pass into your mother, the same green of aspens surrounded by snow and the way light moves through a day, or a hundred days. Cold sun draws the chariot parallax with stars.
Wet porcelain on a planet of weeds. I am thankful for the edges of things, this separation cramped into a dream. Vast wheat in wind, away from all eyes. Birds sitting on the wire reminding us what darkness was before light came with a flick of a switch and warmth of fire at the push of a button, and ten thousand songs in your pocket.
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