Saturday, May 14, 2011

355. Corridors of Flight

Prescient and
parlous and the only
word left in a pocket
after a long hot
day is “pointillist,”
for the world we see,
thru our eyes,
is an array of dots,
their colors various
and varying, and
it is difference that
gives the world
any shape, enough
so we think we are
somewhere and
something, oh,
what do you see
out your window
on a foggy morning
that you cannot
smell with your
tongue as the
slightest tinge of
asparagus coming
at you as the color
green? and it is so
and therefore that
we leap into daylight
anxious for the
blooming it will
bring us as it brings
us to, for we sleep
thru much of
being, whether
awake or truly
sleeping, the world
is but a place
that moves thru
us as we sit, silent,
waiting for some
thing to make us
move, or breathe,
or give back to this
overwhelming sense
of urgency, the only
breath of the body,
for to live, and
to give pleasure at
the quiet that
realization brings,
that the body
sensate creates
thru the process
of perception, yes,
it all pours in, the
waves of color,
the smells that hit
us as a sense of
coolness at the height
of summer, the
tingling of sounds
along the edges of
the body, even the
way the body is edge-
less, borderless, as
it swims thru the
world, its senses
receiving even as
the body sends from
itself its own evidences
of its being, its own
sounds and sight,
the shape of its scent,
for everything living,
everyone prescient
and precious, makes
something of itself
and pushes it forward
into space so that
it can be washed over
by experience, either
remembered (or half-)
or let slip out of the
mind and under the
footfall you take
down that hallway,
the echo of the foot,
then of the other,
the air that pushes
slightly at your ears
as you walk, the
squeak of a rolling
gurney, with a door
open the light falls
thru the door, and
you step into it and
don’t usually feel
it, and there is the
smell, sometimes, of
a tray of food you
wouldn’t want to eat,
but someone has to,
and finally the last
scent someone smells
before sifting into
a sleep there is
no returning from.

No comments:

Post a Comment