it’s all so possible in March.
yawning ochre,
splaying out upon tanned leather:
an ostentation.
Still, the copal makes tendrils
and the room is warm,
in an airbnb,
on dekalb
It’s difficult,
being at all times of two minds.
Two wrens, in concert.
The tired contention:
To jar the wind,
Or to admire its passing by
Feels like I opted for the latter on this one.
I think I’m better for it.
Maybe the contention itself is the problem,
in an effort to document, to provide some sort of
context, do we lose the interstitials?
Maybe it’s this glut of presence:
A mind guided toward growing piles
at last, the hushed reverence.
I wonder why it’s become so troublesome, and if this speaks
to some shared collapse of our inner earths.
I’m still trying to get my head around it.
I guess I’ve just been processing—
trying to figure out why this one felt like it did,
why it felt so sacred.
Maybe I’m arriving at something here.
Since moving to Arizona
I think I’ve always sort of compartmentalized having done so
In some idle refusal.
There was always home:
an earth stained electric blue
with so many could have been’s
You sort of carry it with you,
with clenched-fists.
All the while failing to notice
how over time, the blades of grass,
once so tightly-gripped, have begun to fall
from between your aching knuckles,
to find rest alongside the stains of tears,
that once provided balm to scorched earth
upon first ingress
and as these blades cut through the air,
falling to the ground,
they reflect light as they spin,
they become hearth in bloom,
they become the sunned-molt
and I think maybe,
that’s why a mere few days back in the east coast
felt the way it did.
Why no container could ever exist.
Maybe it is due this final, attainable good,
of which I am recipient:
To acknowledge one’s hands, one’s digits:
decrepit, calloused, and stiffening:
in rictus, hanged by foxglove stems.
To with such acknowledgment take hold—
to then brush with honey and with salt,
to open fully the once-shaded palm,
to in tandem take sun:
a stilling warmth.
Further still,
Maybe it’s a rude host at Tonchin.
Maybe it’s running through pouring rain to get ice cream.
Maybe it’s freestyling over Vegyn in traffic.
Maybe it’s an inadvertent warehouse party in Bushwick,
Maybe it’s the respite of an airbnb
gilded with ambient guitar-playing
from below
Maybe it’s uncanny parking space abilities.
Maybe it’s listening to the screenplay on I-87.
Maybe it’s speedrunning the MET.
Maybe it’s nice food.
Maybe it’s good coffee.
Maybe it’s learning about Wallkill bears,
Words fail, still
Maybe it’s just nice to feel new.
Maybe it’s all of these things coalescing,
which in hindsight provides a retirement
to certain fetters.
and maybe that takes time to comprehend.
To walk upon old stead:
thorny and sunken,
and no longer feel the barbed tooth,
a fonder real I never thought I’d know.
void death.
Here now,
embroidered by this reconciliation,
I gather soft materials from new earth:
mosses, feathers, and scraps of cloth,
and I build.
and really,
in the end,
it is enough.
🌀
March 2 - 11
Nikon F3HP
Portra 400, Portra 800
Eliz Digital,
TCR Photo Imaging Center