And what is to be visceral, if not to lead with the deeper mind of the body’s insides? The gut is often wiser than the radio which sits in its alcove in the attic (keenly wired to the world and its signals but only for as long as its battery acids have been replenished). So cold today… Seen from the high oriel window that juts out of brick: a skein of dark glyphs over gray-draped fields, the quarrelsome racket of crows. I’ve learned not to believe everything that purports to bring forward an accounting. In our ledger of days, the hills might be pages crammed with previous scripts— And yet, even the lopped-up limbs of dead trees twitch back to life in the fire.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- The season turns again
- Hyperphagia
- We woke and the world was colder,
- Own
- Excerpts
- Malarkey
- I wanted the taste of bitter greens
- Grief
- Autumn
- Cleft
- Decorum
- Sibilant Ghazal
- Hokkaido
- October
- Kabayan
- Thence
- Savasana
- Life Skills
- Dear Naga Buddha,
- Notes to/on the plagiarist
- The Empress of Malcolm Square
- Prelude
- 4 Etchings
- In One and the Same Moment
- Wayang Kulit
- Exit Interview (excerpt)
- And ever
- Openwork
- Necessity
- Canción sin fin
- Pavor Nocturnus
- If only the wind now dresses the trees
- Hinge
- November
- Elegy, even after 22 years
- Fleeting
- Osteon
- Outlast
- The years teach much that the days never know*
- Thin fog, as in the corners of a tintype—
- Resist