(Crescent Bay Beach)
-The seepage from what have killed in one part of your
life will rise, eventually, through your rooms no matter
what doors you might try to close.
—Always it is the same dark you touch, wherever you touch, its
odors, its watery flesh closing about you, spreading across
your hands like new skin.
—What does one say to the mad? They hang from their trees
like swollen fruit, unwilling to fall, untouched by the
weather. What meetings can hold them there? What candor?
—The shed skin, the broken rind, your life but a catch now in your own throat…
—So one has to dive, sinking more rapidly than what sinks
in advance of you: once down, once under it all, the
quieter it becomes, the less fearful it becomes, the quieter it becomes.
Leave a Reply