21 November 2010

dawn from above



I have no face
I am two eyes, and the land rolls away beneath them.

The world has no history - some roads, odd trees and absent animals, the folding and eroding of rock in the distance, and the shoes I wear on dangling feet - but I am not
in Tennessee, off this so-named road or any amount of feet in the air
the wind is nameless and so am I.

 Memory is the the spine of a hollow cave I slept in last night, the bony disc of a full moon setting as I ascended stony steps this morning, and the vague familiarity of a sun rising from a hole in the forest.

Clouds swing on strings lightly like puppets, old voices are no voices, and we all lose our humanity to politeness when she demands it.

 The top floor slats, rotten boards, a penny in a crack on its back. E pluribus unum.  Who else?  I see no one.

 Silence arrives as a humble wave, indivisible, too scarce to remember how to embrace.  Even eyes have become rare enough for words.

 But eyes or no, the echo of the rock, the sway of the tower, the sound of dawn munching apricots and spitting its pits into the valley - the world spins
and dawn tears apart time and history and direction in an ancient ritual rise.

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