There is the sun; back there somewhere,
in rain today and a world of refracted-grey light
and Nashville is covered in filters.
Martins are as black as Memphis
and everything is an illusion and a silhouette.
What is it about quiet that looks so much like still pictures?
What is it that draws me out of my stone and puts me forward in,
being to the middle of it just as black?
My perception of myself is only my own.
The tree falls and no one hears.
jP 14.10.o13
No comments:
Post a Comment