(no subject)
Lot's wife turned to salt,
but i haven't
I've turned to ice.
This is where i go when i sleep, sister, if i sleep at all. I slip into churning water, grasped by a fierce hand. There, under ice, a horse is soundlessly thrashing, kicking, eyes rolling as it drags a man, and a rescuer who can't rescu anyone, caught in the grip of one who is always descenting into the dream of his own death, as if my own foot is caught so i can't break free, a sleeper who can't sleep, who wakes herself by dreaming of her life--
Nostalgia's too late, comes with arms bare wanting what's gone. Wind and dead leaves, ash, smoke.
but i haven't
I've turned to ice.
This is where i go when i sleep, sister, if i sleep at all. I slip into churning water, grasped by a fierce hand. There, under ice, a horse is soundlessly thrashing, kicking, eyes rolling as it drags a man, and a rescuer who can't rescu anyone, caught in the grip of one who is always descenting into the dream of his own death, as if my own foot is caught so i can't break free, a sleeper who can't sleep, who wakes herself by dreaming of her life--
Nostalgia's too late, comes with arms bare wanting what's gone. Wind and dead leaves, ash, smoke.