of thought that cuts &
floats without blight or bile. There is the fine particularity of subatomic
particles. There is the clouds’ rosy hole through which creation peeks, then
beckons, then retreats. As for the frantic lives of animals & plants, the
faux stillness of minerals, the bell curve of phase change — I am confident in
osmosis, both cognitive & saline. I am certain of limits, as limitations
litter my fear, like plastic isles in a hapless green sea. You swallow animal,
mineral, & vegetal. Twenty questions bare identities not yours, which slips
& slides from my desire like false advertising, false promise, or truthful
testimony. In the world of bats, dinner is charted geometrically. In the world
of foresight, death has long tentacles, prying backwards, spoiling some moments,
enhancing others. To regret sentience is to be ready for the next brutal
blessing.
This
is one of a new batch of prose poems which I am accruing in layers to populate a
new collection. It was born in the
mountains, during a particularly gaudy sunset, decked out in late summer colors
but carrying with it the chill of the changing season. I scribbled in the dwindling
light, while the first bats swooped by in near-silence, hunting for dinner.
-- Susan Lewis
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