Now I know why I love to watch the leaves fall from a distance - each one following the other is a dance that takes you away from the ground. And the numbers of us slow us when you take sound away - just a mass moving into a fog too soft to define it mad. Inside the gray a brood sleeps a foliage - tail over tail, a shade of rest. This is how the world was meant to be seen, why a pilgrimage is done as a group, why a glide between trees is as sleek as the wind if it were to be seen. Receive our words as couched in symbols on a DOS screen, as green - as rain.
That's the thing about cursive; At some point you lose yourself in the rubbed-out edges, pulled ribbons, falling around the ephemera like disbanded sails. I knock around with envelopes, too close to discern a shape in the ink - more like lasso now left to pull back the day. It is like the draft to your story. The faded edges of it swim to the most salient memory of you, the time we passed up Sunday's sermon to go walk by the pond. The scene is foldable, the memory of it blotted, blurring then and now - ducks, ampersands connecting us - the swans' plumages, arrows darting to and fro' between the length of our arms over fallen twigs half submerged in sun glare like something unfinished. Like something you uttered indecipherable, but the sound of your voice assured me you were happy.
On the stairs a past version of myself almost shivers out of alignment, verges on vellus hairs unsaturated with images of a colder sun, blurs my sight like dust with nowhere to fall. When the time comes there'll be maybe a handful - two or three at most as diffuse as the sky ready to merge in the fisheye of a room's light. For now, the leap in my chest as I crack an album briefly doesn't recognize itself as it points to itself, and I think of places I'd lived as ruins. At some point feet paused and forward became backward, or there were always two of us running to one another and the meeting point broke us both - loose pieces in my ankles, in the mind waiting for a recount but all I have are moments, mostly full of sky now, gradients of a color - utility wires vanishing midway. The bulk of me dissipates on the white of the attic floor in the weight of my eyes - a loose connection, whole as in the way the sky is millions of eras whole. A past version of the self almost
Today prayer is a place that holds your voice until it can speak - palatoglossal arches above rows, the pulpit, and its oration - hymnals pulled from pockets behind pews with a mouth that barely moves - mumbles, a lump in the throat - the voice splitting. As the congregation leaves yesterday's prayers surge the candles in the wind still sounding in their Ss between rows of pews with those who'd still come between sermons - linger in the oratory, take our prayer into their breast. I can see them better than the ghosts of loved ones filling the pit of the entranceway, and I wonder if this is faith dying or coming to life as we come with palms ready, with pockets filled and fumbling with keepsakes to lay on the altar like loose threads unraveled from the heart, our mouths tired.
The Homeless Eye in the Storm by Moonbeams, literature
Literature
The Homeless Eye in the Storm
The fog in the wind owes him a foundation apt to crumble, but too soft to crumble. The streetlights are as mild as a lamp beside the cushioned sounds of a train halting - could be a chair pulled from the table: sit, sit the moonlight is a sheet, a pillow, the emerging sun is a comforter kicked off onto the ground. The bakery is mother humming in the next room. The plaza, the cul-de-sac swaddles you. The spilled seed is the birdfeeder, the yard. Home was made grand by its windows, broke them when it breathed.