We Lost But We Still Live Here


Try waiting for the conquering army, rucksack filled with pillows of darkness, as if
the arrival could be as ordinary as sunset.
Your night wounds don’t have to be displayed like appetizers. It’s a time
inbetween for noticing the way things fall from the trees, little doors and little windows.
Hold one up and decide. What do you have to say about tomorrow?
Now try the world inside the world we live in. The window is open and lets the
enemy know what I haven’t been doing. I don’t speak inside because all the words belong
to my parents. Painful vegetables and silence eating itself.
The difference between the humble and the undiscovered.
Some pieces of the meaning had fallen off. I had been deciding to watch them for a
very long time. The clouds in my closet appeared to be my body’s thought and it
lingered in the marrow. I’m delighted that it knows not how to leave me. There is a wind,
but it’s resting.
Yes, we stopped there and stopped there, you and I, nervous and excited, like a
jewelry store. Composed of an otherness. Powdered skin and fresh ovens. Roasted pink
and rubadubbed. Flibberjabbered out and out. Such a git we was. This is me, we said, this
is more than me, this is me before I get there. A couple of chairs crouched and waiting to
receive the adoration of random pebbles.
I thought to myself even as it was happening, “He’s got his hands inside the thing,
doing something private.”
When the grasshoppers came, we called them villagers.
Pillaging won’t be necessary.

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.