EARTHRISE
Some mornings, like this one, I awake on
a planet where it seems I've never awakened
before - in a strange, new situation, in a place
never before trod. Everything is new and I do
not know, cannot find, the reasons or the meanings:
all vast echoes I cannot neither decipher nor hear.
-
The yellow light inside that truck the bread man
drives. Delivers. He stumbles out, huge boxes
balanced on his hands. A certain form of skill
presents itself unto the forlorn world : a declitude
of new arrivals underscores his richness. Seeing
distance and nothing more, I watch now as he
straggles back; big truck rumbling on.
-
Perhaps to say it takes me, time again - and
again - to fit once more within my clothes; all
manner of earthly garb, of time, of space, of
meaning. Of things so site-specific I can no
longer say. Nonetheless, I find myself a
mangled tongue to manage still what
words cannot fulfill.
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