shadows

the things i love are made of glass. fragile, fixed with only the certainty that light shines through them, indeed that through them all the colors of the earth and sky are born. it is this, in the end, that makes a life unknowable other than by "here" and flavored only by the raindrop force of "now" and this, here you say, goes everywhere. and filled with all the intangible color of flowers and the sensations of a tree branch against your neck. it's survived only by the lasting knowledge that the tender things will always wash away like water over mountains and come again in spring. and so i sing, here in the place within myself that is like colorado for tuberculers: it draws me in where i can only survive in the great tunnells of life and time, playing with my little galss things and watching them forever, fixed.

2003-09-01 | 7:57 p.m.
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