Читать книгу Pictograph - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 15

THE SENTIENCE OF ROCKS

Take the origin of this stillness. Divide it into bits. What is form but the reining in of desire? As we age, we drape less. Charcoal peppered across our caps. Suddenly, we have microscopes for eyes. We complain of our “loose habits,” by which we mean we drink and smoke. Our bodies won’t stay long, although our bones can. Surely, we will be given time to explore the diverticula of the heart. The long, most beautiful summers coming to an end. We sense the shadow-bearing figures, day and night, mixed as they are. We might be stage. We might be inconsequential. We begin to sleep close to the sound of the creek. We stockpile our warmth for the others. Do our dreams prepare us for our eventual deaths? There is no time there. Therefore, there is no breath. Small area of dots and hand-smears outside the rose-orange wash of blood. They are watching us from there, Pilgrim. Whoever they are.