Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say.
—Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road
Source: Fast Company
Listen. It’s morning. Soon I’ll see your hand reach
for my watch, the water will agitate in the kettle,
but listen. Traffic. I want your dreams first. And
to slide my leg beneath yours before the day opens.
Wait. We slept late. You’ll be moody, the phone
will ring, someone wanting something. Let me put
my hands in your hair. Who I was last night I would
be again. This is how the future holds me, how depression
wakes with us; my body shelters it. Let me
put my head on your breast. I know nothing lasts.
I would try to hold you back, not out of meanness
but fear. Oh my practical, my worldly-wise. You
know how the body falters, falls in on itself. Tell me
that we will never want from each other what we
cannot have. Lie. It’s morning.
with thanks to april-is
A sudden burst of birds in another late April
We sat smoking in a late April
On the roof of the house
where I was the cook and you were the visitor
two consumptive actors
on break between scenes
In the elided afternoon we chatted
a friend who left
a friend who returned
feet in the hammock
hands in the sunlight
“Here’s to the good summer”
summer of the young.
Where did you go?
Into the unknown city
a week later through the window
through ground which punctured your aorta
of or not of your own accord
no one told me—
“There’s nothing to say,”
we weren’t even friends.
Late April like a beast
Maybe it was already May—
Don’t trust what you have been taught, what you think, what you believe, what you hope. Deeper than that, trust the silence of your being.
— Gangaji (via tobiji)
The terrifying immensity of the firmament’s abysses is an illusion, an external reflection of our own abysses, perceived ‘in a mirror.’ We should invert our eyes and practice a sublime astronomy in the infinitude of our hearts, for which God was willing to die… If we see the Milky Way, it is because it actually exists in our souls.
— Léon Bloy, 1894, as quoted by Borges in The Mirror of Enigmas, from Labyrinths. (via electrontransfer)