It becomes gradation. Leaves coming and wilting. To palm
one, looking at time. I was a lad back when. Time is rushing. The ocean is affected,
thus, changed. I bore witness to it, charmed I suppose, with an audience to
speak in sequences. Some are machination; others are stern; season has come by
stillness. It’s the voice; it says time is wilting. It’s exciting—souls are
justified—in the mission, spirits find each other. I saw it, a coyote on
campus, it just watched.
A bear charges. Wolves will challenge. The bear is not
amused.
I must unlatch perception, endure as another does, she
trembles, life is temblors. She has travels, London, Africa, and sails
included. Some are born to it, others are graphed in, knit in space, it becomes
bigger than its picture.
I met one on sabbatical. They flew her in. It seemed peculiar.
Changes in skies. Lights in darkness. Little
information exchanged (always small talk).
One time, one occasion, a petit pencil, the LED tipped
at heart.
Most irrelevant. Most unique.
To pass over glaciers, rising interior, to want what
can never be mentioned—to desire what will never be fruition, seduced by
measures.
Most remiss not to suggest—one is immortalized, stored
in cosmos, raining through deserts—mental meteor—delicate at points, suggesting
something meaningful in expectation, harmful if unread.
No one knows. The scientist is hopeful. The religious
endures.
