"at the edge of a forest
whose trees are slender ideas
and each leaf a thought at bay"
whose trees are slender ideas
and each leaf a thought at bay"
– Gherasim Luca, Self-Shadowing Prey (trans. Mary Ann Caws)
1.25.13.
It’s strange.
I haven’t written in so long,
I actually closed my eyes for a moment
and asked myself if I remembered how.
But it’s just pen to paper,
fingertip to keys, rather,
to the rhythm of coleurs
and the rise and fall
of another’s breath at your ankles
and the pulse of their wrist
in time with your own.
It’s the sound of the dishwasher
like your mother’s listerine
splashing in the sink,
erasing the remnants
of her third cup of coffee
and first cigarette.
Writing is observing
and then bleeding
onto sheets of yellow paper.
