November 2010
2 posts
Same Legs
How strange that a year should pass. Is that what we mean? That the time itself is ambulatory? That we, those who always want to be concerned with the verb, the going, the doing, are standing rooted. It seems that a clock has been named with the wrong body parts. Those are not hands I see, but legs.
And we. We are frozen, to ourselves.
I am imagining a background...
The Den
We’ve begun spending so much time sitting in a proximate way, loving each other quietly. Five years of space on the books somehow wrote us next to each other on the page and we are happy to be there. We have woven ourselves an autumn cocoon, but a blooming one that heats and stimulates, but also opens and closes and transmutates.
A lung in breath.
We are a cocoon...