a snowflake falls into the sun Apr 23, 2018
I suppose all stories have some kind of resolution.
the hummingbird only sees the reef through glass
to her it is like driving on the highway
while the fish stand on the dotted white lines
her world is a vibrance that to a fish is only pain
somewhere travelled begrudgingly
when absolutely necessary
the flowers cannot remember the flood
for those that might are gone
but the bees remember winter
and the trees keep chanting, Om—
a confusion of faces and places
everything merging like a wheel
turning even as it rots even
through the bog and
over bodies and across the ice out
to the edge of the world
and up from beneath, over the edge,
the messenger without a message
arrives with his mouth open
The map was drawn long ago,
its symbols lost like its makers.
There are many paths and one destination.
But there's a secret. We redraw the map every year.
Every year we try to imitate perfection,
and we become the new perfect.
And we send them out along the trails
with packs and tins, to find a new way.
They find so much. But there is never a new way.
We already knew. But you can't teach everything.
what does it mean to love someone
when you are capable of loving anything?
a snowflake falls into the sun
- a thousand years on the backs of paper elephants
- come name their bone dance
- continental shelf
- entirely free of guilt, i
- only by consuming pieces of one another can beings such as we exist
- the fires are sweeping through the outlying villages
- the ocean will one day give up its dead
- like coming up for air
- The Reckless Beemoth of Snowflake 8
all writing, chronological
next: his eyes are colorless
previous: the ecstasy of silence