28 March 2015

Postcard 8

I'm starting to see everything in terms of parabolas. The sway of the sun in a low winter sky, the slow curves of a woman's belly and hips, the arc of memory in each direction -- toward the infinite unknowns of birth and death -- the crest I ride in the present, the hills pushing the clouds up in parallel, the birds and bugs -- all that flies, leaving traces of light, burnt for a moment in my eyes. There is no abrupt, there is only the ride of ascent, the giddy round cresting, the descent -- a relief of tension. A smile, a salty path of tear, a farewell. Whirl is King

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