October 4

It’s a landscape in motion, such that wherever you look, it’s beautiful. So I turn the dialogue up a notch. The candles smoke on their cone manifestly. My vision fades. I saw rough seas before eyes. I put away my oversized shoes. I slept in my worry. I swam before swimming. I pressed the pulp and I screamed. I thought she  called me.

October 5

It’s a great weakness of the soul. Return yourself to the world, please. Promise me you’ll begin, anew. One must have what one must have, enough to make an omelette. The list of a single ingredient. Unharmed recipe. Your toddies were constant: a white yellow, red milk, a dash of space-rum. What is it to be? It is winter and there are screams from the childrens’ rooms. Here, we play down low. Your depth suggests a shallow, foggy depth, blue positioned at an angle, a window, sardines. Always more drawn out—or the ultra-evidence where we were, one carried toward the other—than the same wavelength as the soul.

October 6

Return to the world and plant yourself in the scenery, anew. It’s time, we’ll exit like grown-ups. It’s alive, tenuous. We talk about colors and you, you get up and leave, with increasing speed. At the intersection of I’m scared, it is said that I’m  afraid. My fingers stick to the preceding minute, the first minute of a single day. Were we brave to begin? With one touch, recover. Red earth of my wounded shoes, earth of nightmares. At the market where we met, I immediately knew. The candles smoke on their cone manifestly. Here where the poem has no sense, veiled conception, duration pulsing ahead of the slope.

October 7

I stooped to the level of my fear, and as she retraced her steps with the animals, we returned to the variously broken and fading lights. Unaltered design, the same assemblage of wool and paper stuck to the ground like dust, the little watch face broke. What do we know about them when they reach us? Questions are visual, arguments that churn in the hills with pebbles rolling from the ground into pockets, wearing down the inner lining. The light may have adjusted to what she can see. What of song without wind?