When rain fell,
were she foolish enough to ask herself ‘who am I’ she would fall flat on her face. That’s why thought, she says, means fear. Language goes with us into the house, the gap between mistake and morning sickness. First you break the windows, then you are the windows. The word ‘dream’ is not a word that closes.
**
Only in connection,
with a river do mists make sense. Days begin to orient themselves as I sleep without so much as a nightmare. Unable to find my own things in the darkness I pick up the objects ‘happiness,’ ‘unhappiness’ and ‘as much hot water as you wanted.’ I can see the tax collectors coming through the pines.
But this duration
wandering the open country, a rush of water. Where I feel most comfortable, simply to move twenty minutes to the west, so I can wander in your darkness. Crossing huge stretches of grass with a fat orange moon in the sky, I finally came to prefer memory. I find so much of you there I don’t think about arriving.
SARAH STONE 2009
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