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“Your movements have their primal bent from heaven” Sun enters the stream’s narrow sway, the ascent, the baffling feelings, all below the surface of my journey. The shallows are far from the city I peered out from, and left high and swaying as the hour came. Under the bridge this third heaven, this Rubicon, opens. In the late afternoon the smoke I remember tenanting my days finally leaves me as I feel the soft mud at the bottom. My bed is now stones my quest for peace an astrological certainty–a small fish leans into the hour as the light becomes less clear. When I disappear into flame, your adust soul will register, somewhere in the city’s sunlight. The sour, red wine that excoriated me and hurled you into the storm is gone, but our desert needed a sea, our desert needed a sea. Darkness falls, and I am content to wait for dawn. The slight, yet deep, wind of illusion questions the overhanging trees, wordlessly patient. I will thaw in the sun, water will trickle from my heart. |
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