Here we are again. A cold plain of silence, a clinking of dishes for accompaniment. They come at later intervals now, but still they come— as if the bare trees filling with the dark iridescence of grackles aren't enough, as if the fields strewn with headstones and weeds aren't loud enough. It feels like we've just arrived yet barely know how soon we'll get to where we're all headed. It could be any day now. It could be an instant. Tomorrow, next week, next year, or an extra decade later. And what is a birthday? In home recordings there's that moment between the light being dimmed in another room and the moment when the cake is borne aloft, a ship strung with sparklers. Here it comes. First the hush, then eruption into sound. Remember?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
