a poem about limen
Every day the house rehearses your coming: Light chooses its wall with grave composure, cup keeps its circle inviolate as dust holds slow argument with the emptying of day. Phenomena no different than: Deer lifts its head ere the clearing contains a soul. Body knows first. The eye limps after, late and mortal still. There are days the ordinary grows so thin I feel that other country pressing, pressing — not above, but the elsewhere you have always inhabited, where the air itself stammers in cedar and static, where I stand unmade, unmade as any threshold before the keeper arrives. In this hollow, time loosens its jaw. The absent lean closer, listening for the footfall that will finish us into knowing. Do your windows burn with borrowed glory, like mine? The other condition seeks no possession. It rearranges the stars inside the chest so what is distant and beloved may pass through unharmed. Perhaps the only law: remain open to the terrible wind, to the long, exacting recognition. Stay inside the ruin until I am pooling — your mouth at my throat — Stay until I notice the door has been open all night and the room is filled with moths.
Beautiful. Will be thinking about "dust holds slow argument with the emptying of day" when I see the little dust motes floating in the sunset tonight
This is a beautiful piece. It reads like a meditation on a human condition and how what is perceived reflects off our surroundings that are fixed but ultimately an emotional impression.