Noise of the page. That easy stuff. Seen. Named. To distract you.
Threshold of transfinite fact. A little cottage in Grey Hills. RK
An eye crafted by light. The sun hides stones, words that glow
in the corner of the room. Littering the ground they are
under fog. Wet. From elsewhere. Alchemists in from the rain.
Garrulous, hick neighbors. Things talk. Don’t bespeak the mind;
speak in it. I just copy what’s there, best I can: touch
them also in your mind. Stone to drop between the pages.
Now just count until you’re me again, he said she said.
No comments:
Post a Comment