“The Artist, he who even takes the shadows of things in hand…”
“He who imagines will never know non-being.”
A morass of shadows.
A repletion of blips and flashings.
An absence : I understand.
I swipe my hand through the shadows. I sense disturbance, but my palm returns empty, save the moisture of fog in dark woods. If even. There has been dust.
I stir the ashes. I kindle the fire. The brain a roadmap of chaos. And intricately precise. Subject to accident and lesion and a cross-pollination of impulses and energies beyond present calculations. Not withstanding infinity, of course, which hardly makes sense, given the matter.
A squalor of shadows.
Currents of whispering air, of motion.
A ubiquity that trembles.
I open my mouth to the world. I emit and inhale. Shouting resonant within, because I have ears. Equipped with particulars. Apparatus. Other cells stay quiet but do not cease, I lack the equipment to hear. Stone, lizard, mushroom. Light in its veils. I cry out. Echo =, tree hardly cares. I’m remiss and listen myself for response.
Breathing the smoke. I stink and I cough and I smell. My hand passes through without ashes or mist. I am not everywhere. I do not know my ends. If a melody came through like a sight or a sound, I would not name it. I am emptying full.
As shadows thicken and disperse.
Objects as subjects and objects again.
Something live in the darkness.
That is darkness for me, not the night owl or mouse, salamander or bat, not the tree. No, it is me, I, we, that conjure the “darkness” as difference from “light,” however similar, however same. As if emitting symbols. As if meaning to manufacture. I construct a sign and call it poem, collaborate a you and a me. We converse. I begin.
If doubt incites a thought, thought conspires doubt to further action. As if shadows were transparent. And meaningless was choice. Eye – mouth – hand : open to the world, the world opens. I begin in signs and gestures, a collaborative entanglement, reentered.
In dispersion shadows reconvene.
Clearly thickened by old growth.
Body minding nets.
Would I make a “here” it would be “we.” A desire for presents is relation. What its plural ought to be (“presence”). I unwrap unable to view the gift. Tell me of it, will you? “Inside” is lost in shadows. What’s perceptible from “there”? Tree, raven, sky. Plastic object pulsed in heartbeat or emotion: what could I learn from “there”?
What isn’t simultaneous? And how like the infinity we are constrained not to absorb? Enclose me. Lend me a form, a border, a threshold. Entangle. Experience may come.
“the silence of the page allows us to hear the writing”