The evolution of perspective, the chronicling of journeys, and a series of overwhelming thoughts.

the world is not a conclusion

When I look out your window,

I see another window.

 

I see a wedding in my brain,

a stylus, and a groove, a 

voice waving there.

 

When I look out your window,

I see another window.

 

These trees are not real, they

grow out of air,

they fell, like dust they fell.

 

If singing is seeing and vision is music,

I saw diadems and crowns, and

daisies, and bees, ribbons, robins,

and disks of snow. 

Sprung effects in pencil-light

 

When I look out your window,

I see another window.

 

I see a fire and a girl, crimson 

hair, hazel eyes, a public part

of sky

 

When the world comes back

It will be recorded sound.

That cooing shrub will be dickinson, the

syllabic, fricative, percussive,

and phonic will tear open .

 

Out of your window,

I see another window.

 

I see a funeral in the air, I see

alabaster space.

I read circumference there.

 

 

Go inside a stone.

That would be my way.

Let somebody else become a dove,

or gnash with a tiger’s tooth

 

I am happy to be a stone.

 

The stone is a riddle from the

outside. No one can answer

yet within, it must be cool

and quiet

 

Even though the cow steps on 

it, even though the child throws 

it in a river, the stone sinks 

slow, unperturbed 

to the river bottom

where the fish come and knock on it

and listen. 

 

I have seen sparks fly out

When two stones are rubbed together

 

So perhaps it’s not dark inside,

perhaps there is a moon shining

from somewhere, as though

behind a hill

 

Just enough light to make

out the strange writings, 

the star charts 

on the inner walls.

Olivia GreenComment