[dreams] there is no garden here
I am told to leave.
The house atop the cliff stands open, empty. Its garden is grey ash. I am reminded that I never stepped inside, never kindled a fire there: only sat on the porch and dreamed.
There is no rustle now, in the bird-wing glade. No wolf spreads its scent under the green-mouth leaves. The pearl is a white dust at last, smeared across the deer-god's palm. He had been patient, as death often is.
When a piece is cut, he reminded, there are two shapes afterward. The negative, no matter how beautiful, no matter that it is half the work, must still be separated, and, ultimately, discarded.
The ocean has a thousand shores, he says. Go.
The house atop the cliff stands open, empty. Its garden is grey ash. I am reminded that I never stepped inside, never kindled a fire there: only sat on the porch and dreamed.
There is no rustle now, in the bird-wing glade. No wolf spreads its scent under the green-mouth leaves. The pearl is a white dust at last, smeared across the deer-god's palm. He had been patient, as death often is.
When a piece is cut, he reminded, there are two shapes afterward. The negative, no matter how beautiful, no matter that it is half the work, must still be separated, and, ultimately, discarded.
The ocean has a thousand shores, he says. Go.