I carry my wings on my back

The country of narrative. I've come to the end of something. There is no end to the other world. The wooden boxes eat or be eaten cold grace a knife and a fork. My story will not be told once but twice and more an altered grey set to music that becomes our lives a life of crumpled pages hoping not impermanent words that belie what once now gone to ash or a teeth discovered under a hand of cast stars a warm finger waking up after the storm flashes leaving my dream the sun glooming remnants of the slow vocabulary of what i recollect best. The glass is already under the skin the landscape of its own tension floating in the ether of its own content Our lives are memory we had in another life Clouds still follow us as in the old sky. A metaphor. I want to walk in amber Amber memory translucent swirl sharp et murky. Memory has no memory. Our lives are like summer cotton, an abyss and that's no metaphor. The radiant glow that washed me a golden glow in good gradual time Silence can be healing or a death Childhood has trememdous shape a wild animal hiding out but never disappearing half seen flickering in out of the forest underground under a boundless canopy. Life is a drop a stone of amber backlit Everything we are becomes what we are not I carry my wings on my back.

--20 may 2010