(no subject)
Salamander's tail, blue-green and disappearing.
The slither and slick, little trick of biology: you were always easy to find.
In the rot of tree trunks stumped, you, silvered thing. Like raindrops on a string, you slid.
Green, green, every time I close my eyes it's the same thing.
I wish. I wish it were always the first time coming up from the brush, the sky squared in by bramble and weed. I waited there with you, hushed, for the shock of sun. This memory lays in my mind stacked and orderly. It is yellow on blue on green. It is sun on sky on grass. It is the dirt beneath my fingernails. It is safe. It is terrible on the teeth but we bit our nails anyway, watching the day sink down into the marsh-wet ground.
The same feeling. My grandmother brought us to the park and I knew she would watch if I walked away but I had no choice. On a bench away from them, I picked the peeling green paint. I watched the water getting greener. I wanted something then.
Funny how the things we want change but the wanting never does.
Same hole in my stomach, same pebble of hunger.
The first line of 'on beauty and being just' tells us that
when the eye sees something beautiful the hand wants to draw it.
The river pulled its knees to its chest.
It did not shudder to see me do the same. Did not shudder for want of me.
Rivers want themselves only. They roll in and in on themselves, they know where home is. Me, me, me. Endless retreat.
I wanted something else, then, but the cure is just the same: knees to chest.
Everything you want sleeps inside you.
The slither and slick, little trick of biology: you were always easy to find.
In the rot of tree trunks stumped, you, silvered thing. Like raindrops on a string, you slid.
Green, green, every time I close my eyes it's the same thing.
I wish. I wish it were always the first time coming up from the brush, the sky squared in by bramble and weed. I waited there with you, hushed, for the shock of sun. This memory lays in my mind stacked and orderly. It is yellow on blue on green. It is sun on sky on grass. It is the dirt beneath my fingernails. It is safe. It is terrible on the teeth but we bit our nails anyway, watching the day sink down into the marsh-wet ground.
The same feeling. My grandmother brought us to the park and I knew she would watch if I walked away but I had no choice. On a bench away from them, I picked the peeling green paint. I watched the water getting greener. I wanted something then.
Funny how the things we want change but the wanting never does.
Same hole in my stomach, same pebble of hunger.
The first line of 'on beauty and being just' tells us that
when the eye sees something beautiful the hand wants to draw it.
The river pulled its knees to its chest.
It did not shudder to see me do the same. Did not shudder for want of me.
Rivers want themselves only. They roll in and in on themselves, they know where home is. Me, me, me. Endless retreat.
I wanted something else, then, but the cure is just the same: knees to chest.
Everything you want sleeps inside you.