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A Night in Which All Cows Are Black
we stumble in the field we thought we knew. ‘Til the cows came home, we called it in daylight. Now the main concern is boundary, we conjure size and find it round, the way its shape is large. A great thing is a great disorder. The thing now is to find that smaller thing: a key, or window, death-wish for completable paradise, even one that won't exclude us, for which we are the answer, simply. For now we can't find even the ground beneath our feet. The outer longs to coincide violently with the inner, a kind of love held back too long. Who knows what's in the trees; the moon is nowhere and the universe is mighty small. We joke of how they'll find us, of headlines lurid or sympathetic, crank letters to our next of kin— then fall to silence, all emphasis ironic where our bodies have no end and begin to bore us when they seem like God's mind everywhere are once, still lost. So this is what it is to be the center, the sweet dream spinning, slowest, at the cog. Are we children calling will o' wisp and fox on fire to the air for fun? Any ghost is welcome where there can be no clairvoyance, where memory is hard and night is meaningless because unequivocal. An ink as thick as cream won't write. And as for us this foolish consistency where edges are the main concern won't last: a crow would shine here, his feathers strayed far from the subject, stars in a closet forgetting how night is seasonal, like us.
In Posse:
Potentially, might be ...
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