Monday, December 7, 2015


All those stumbling people with all their stumbling
gaits : the trees strapped onto cars, the rivalry to
be first. It's all of a tradition of non-matter. A land
so far away. Another place without a trace.
I've learned what material matter is. I've sifted 
through calendar pages looking for ash. It's all gone,
blown sideways in a lethal fury and a wind past prime.
Over on Hedgemont Hill, just past the crematory
entrance, I can see some kids again building their
fort out of broken limbs and branches. They build
them every year for Winter. I sit in them when
it snows and I'm out there walking my dog.
Some things, just to nice to ignore, have meanings
all their own : the shed in the welder's yard, always
ablaze with a violently vivid bluish light. Sparkling.
Wavering. Seeming to change between intense
dimensions with no comments at all.

No comments: