not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

while the world sleeps

outside the dirty windows
the earth moves
like a thought that forms
and unforms
and forms again
before it thinks a word
as words are water weeping
small trickles and tiny skin vibrations
sensations of the mind
lugubrious passionate nothings
but this is not sadness
it's ultra grief so hot it's cold
like when sensations at the faucet are what
and when we nearly die or cry or
we are maybe almost laughing
but mouths are gone like earthworms
and we shift again
the earth us all and nothing
just beyond the shutter of the eye


  1. yes Erin, you captured the moments which make our life so unic

  2. you see
    you live
    this accumulation of the tiniest gestures is the world, the day-after-day, rattling on into its moment ... what would grief be to one who sees??

  3. ollie and laura, i wonder if this is true or if the moments capture me.

    james, the truth of what you say feels like a tadpole wriggling away from me right now. i almost see it. i almost understand it. what more is there but these moments? we are deluded to think there is anything more and yet we search insatiably.

    what would grief be to one who sees? this question could read many different ways. i can't imagine hazarding to answer even to myself without knowing how you are asking. (i don't know how to explain the different questions. perhaps it would be easier if you told me what you mean to ask, or are you not asking, but instead putting your finger in water and creating a swirl?)



"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))