a lineof rocks. One rock seems a little heavier and darker than the others,
but for now, they are two lines of tinkling unaccompanied voices.
The rest can be correspondingly inferred, as a line of rocks
leading toward a distant mountain, as into a distorting mirror,
which once again grows darker and denser, crossing over into mass
for a while, before returning to the little saxophone repetition
with which it began, like rubble under her feet.
Still, anything can still happen. She is still unable to distinguish
one wave from another. This is her nervous system attempting
to maintain its sweep across the plain.
Everything is still moving, and everything is still one texture,
altered from sheer space to the texture of a wall.
The route-through tightens around the nervous system, like a musculature.
It floats like a black mountain against the night sky, although she will remember
a mountain glimmering with ore. Then it darkens for her return.
The river branches and the sea has become blank as mirrors each
branch of the river flows into.
3
Sometimes I think my spirit is resting in the darkness of my stomach.
The snow becomes light at the end of the winter. The summer
is an interruption of intervals that disappear, like his little dance
before the main dances, a veridical drug.
A wafer of space beneath the ice starts to descend, like
the edge of her sleeve across a camera lens. Pretty soon
the ice will be all broken up. There is no space left. You look
down on a break-up of little clouds over the plain, as if the house
you are in suddenly rises, to relieve the nervous pressure of light.
Twenty miles of frozen ridges become a lace of moss
and puddles too flat to see and which are breathing. Here is
a snowdrift that has begun to melt. Here is an old woman
talking about a young person who is androgynous, across a distortion
of radio waves, trying to locate you. She is only moving
from her knees down.
The snow becomes light at the end of winter. How ice changes
on either side of the boat is not a tactic. The drum is a boat.
The mail route is a line of controlled electric light.
They will scatter their clothes anywhere in this light. You leave
your shirt near the snowmobile. It is initial color on the tundra.
Fog
1
Hundreds of millions of years ago, days were many hours shorter.
All things, sounds, stories and beings were related, and this complexity was more obvious. It was not simplified by ideas of relationship in one person's mind.
Paths of energy were forced to stay in the present moment by being free of reference, making it impossible to focus on two things at once, and showing by its quietness that energy of attention is as much a source of value and of turbulence as energy of emotion.
As lava burst from the ground to cover the planet, it also freed water, which escaped as massive billowing fog, a contradicting ambition of consciousness to acquire impressions and retain strong feeling.
Fog is a kind of grounded cloud composed like any cloud of tiny drops of water or of ice crystals, forming an ice fog.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
