I gathered a sense of how the human face demands rooms by which to mark calendars, then I made record of whose singing was enough. When my flock was sent to the egress, it seemed as if hundreds of horses traversed the open grassland. When somehow I’d followed back into the mire, their quick crescent-shaped steps; when I stood, somehow stalled; a sense of the last ghost was conveyed to me as a guide.
The redirection that I thought I agreed to was a tendency. Infrastructure impaired by vibration and extinguishment. Visually loyal to the mind of the learner, smoke-tree’s drop a euphoric identity. This is clinical to their nature. A luggage of small leaves, signal images, crucial imitations which wood-pigeons sing.
I didn’t survive the horse’s synchrony.
Yesterday, having returned from the dialect, opening from the trance of my small death, I read the dull arrangement, solving what had gone extinct under quivering waters. The studded plains were small studied voices; the activity of convergence, an eluded dialogue. Listening offered charms, a prod of trinkets. Those who I met through the stubble, over the canyon’s platinum topography asked me into the kill of winter. This is what I took from the landscape. As if collections of pebbles become administrative, communal. Rescue by rescue, someone will be worth the trawl.
What did I carry, asking the years I loved to be held in bottles slung from strings around my neck?
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