Like animals moving daily through the same open field, it should be easier to distinguish light from dark, fabrications from memory, rain on a sliver of grass from dew appearing overnight. In these moments of desperation, a sentence serves as a halo, the moon hidden so the stars eclipse our daily becoming. You think it should be easier to define one’s path, but with the clouds gathering around our feet, there’s no sense in retracing where we’ve been or where your tired body will carry you. Eventually the birds become confused and inevitable. Even our infinite knowledge of the forecast might make us more vulnerable than we would be in drawn-out ignorance. To the sun all weeds eventually rise up. Copyright @ 2014 by Adam Clay. Used with permission of the author. |
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