I wasn’t there, so I snuckered in and continued defending my disconsolate
mountains from fat low clouds. I wondered if my absence reminded you of Chicago or
the birdsong that was empty the day we fell from grace. It’s the whisper of the crash that
leans away. Whispering once was whispering has been. You couldn’t call it
constructive, but something was being made, and it stayed. I knew it was loud, but I
couldn’t hear it, an early glimmer of the next thing that wanted a body, a horse in the
shape of a cloud, or the city meadow’s rising floor freshly laid and turned to the
habitation of the habit of life. Since the last time you found it, you’ve come a long way
only to arrive at another start of you.
All the windows were white and cast shadows on the ceiling, your purse womb
promising something to carry on the outside. So I’m a wind at you and you bluster a
scissorful of not so much, fastened to my own life like a book cover. Inside, the room I
am grows a door though it’s not clear which way it opens.
I invented a device that catches light and gradually releases it whenever your lips
begin casting shadows on the shadows falling up the ceiling. That always makes me want
to remember the clothing I wore to the morning. I used to think something would wait for
me to happen, and sometimes it did, but still, I was someone else when I returned, so I
couldn’t find you in the fat low clouds, and the ceiling was older with its shadows and all
the light released by Chicago.
Since you could see through the leaves, we knew there was falling. We followed a
book all the way to the ending. The way the wind crossed the river, you couldn’t tell
where anything was going. The puffy cloud fights were enormous where some others like
us weren’t lonely, with their children cavorting in baby blue pajamas with feet and
cowboys lassoing escapist clouds.
I filled my life like an envelope but no one sent it. Whether you sink or swim, said
the wisdom, which was common and therefore not wisdom, the water parts for you. The
twilight keeps a notebook hidden in the coming dark that can’t read it.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.