.
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.
.
5 comments:
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.
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....
yes.
A marvel of an ending, James. Good piece.
What a wonderful title and this
'this ache to press
the air scrubbed after last night’s storm
aside like a door'
particularly.
Post a Comment