No drought in the clouds; they have fashioned themselves into step of stairs between two shingle planes, stabbed onto telephone wire. Blissful be not still, only cars on the street and even they could be figments. I think I’d rather exist in vibration–finding sentences still just buds under tongue. Time to take care of them til they are well enough to get out on their own.
March 31st, 2008 at 3:22 pm
This reads like a prayer or a series of mantras. The voice reads as sort of indifferent and gracious at once–it makes me think of some removed being giving out blessings.