9:05 AM Posted by James Owens

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Even this world seems enough when starlings shimmer on the grass

First dawnlight imagines my hands
out of the dark, this ache to press

the air scrubbed after last night’s storm
aside like a door. And all

have risen in sleep.
We ply currents into the sky,

gliding, hovering, climbing again
as if we loved the far moon—

until the body tugs,
insists on the earth, and the dreamer

turns, spirals,
regains the muddy shell and casts about

for a word to crack open the dark,
for threshold in the tongue of angels.

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5 comments:

Roxana said...

and the dreamer

turns, spirals,
regains the muddy shell and casts about

for a word to crack open the dark,
for threshold in the tongue of angels.



oh, James... sometimes a word can do that, yes... perhaps it could do it always, if we hadn't forgotten how to speak. and that "threshold in the tongue of angels", if it could be found, it would be the only one to provide shelter while continuing to be a threshold at the same time. the "between" you spoke about on my blog - no, that can't do it. it is only a Zerrissenheit.

James Owens said...

Roxana: This is what we are looking for, are we not?, you and I, this shelter that unites (unties) the terms of the contradiction, that allows the between without violence, diese Schwelle die heilt den Riss ab....

Roxana said...

yes.

sam of the ten thousand things said...

A marvel of an ending, James. Good piece.

Sorlil said...

What a wonderful title and this

'this ache to press

the air scrubbed after last night’s storm
aside like a door'

particularly.