1st Snow was a kind of hand-wringing heat; mine burned psychedelic red with it. Where your footsteps trod, it cast blue shadows like a methane fire. Crystals, so many I couldn’t get the maths straight in my head, falling feathery, light … FeatherLite, my nan’s eiderdown, all put away now inside some cupboard. We […]
7.9 inches of rain fell in Central Park last night dead cicadas on the crosswalk their bodies bunched in brittle knots sticky candy sky bright with grief branches submerged by the weight of our silence a letter unread a door closed firmly & […]
Read More… from The Month of Emergencies – poemRebecca Faulkner
Whether you can get there from here or wherever depends on whether you are there already, on whether you will find that you are already standing amidst the outspread hands of its stones, and their misty grey dawns, on whether indeed the arcs and folds of that sky really can make all location moot […]