The surfaces of things grown slow and

dangerous

beneath the desire to apprehend. September light I cannot hear your quiet.

So much elsewhere unsettling each surface, so much annul.

Trees bending, shockwaves of mind. Tender maelstroms

    Of astray and sunder. And shudderings of late summer light on the hill
As when hurt pathways of thought
Become habitable scars, strange comfort of roughness, hectic-calm.
No captions beneath them, no marketing director saying, ‘Our job is to make people
Buy things they don’t need or want.’

How secretive the brain is. So many banishments inside it, so much sting.
I watch the leafdarks sway among the lit ones,
Cureless in their turnings, flicks of wind.

Laurie Sheck

 

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