nightly abstractions

while the world lies asleep in a field, here, now, i am meaning. less devastating than the past. forgotten national realities. as i move i’m momentarily moved fort/da by the details. iteration makes me less lonely. i know what is passing has passed, no epitaph uncited. i slow down for the stars are statues made of glass, glowing, swirling. beauty. i lift the lid. there are no stars outside. there is no field.

long nights

We worked into the night: the fans, buzzards, drums, notes, and half torn stories were all piling up in one great frying pan. The smoke began to rise between the pages and the notes, and we saw our thoughts before our eyes—colourful and glowing with ghostly excitement, yet discordant. All we could hear now was a desultory vibration, bouncing from one ear to the next. Our names, simmering in the distance, became unintelligible, and in those passing seconds we knew one another by our glances.