On what does it depend, where we move, where we appear, where the weeping cherry’s pendulous branches heavy with white bloom fill the space left by the cut-down hemlock: gone that shade, gone the green-needled privacy between window and road, in-here and out-there, the self’s boundary and clothed singularity, one of us moving away or towards, the in-falling life surviving a circuit of years and years, until it can no longer escape its own gravity, time a thought without velocity though ceaseless in a flat infinity. Not this curve that takes you away into perfectly random dark that will not surrender its unseeable heart, the edge on which you turn back to wave before you disappear.
John Allman | Premonitions Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)