Saturday, August 13, 2005

Smashing particles...

Fresh smell of dew. Pale yellow bulb. Rising sun. At Saturday dawn. The porch lamp seemed a minor waste, although in the intervening days a darkness has replaced my bright backyard. The weed-cracked drive advances into nothingness. It's queer, perhaps too simple, how, returning home on Saturday night, that light burns like a stroke of genius now, elucidating moths, a wicker chair, the gate that bears a jaw of shadowed fangs, and a spider's needlework in which the small, shriveled skeletons of flies decay. Like props abandoned from a play, two unread papers languish in the grass.
Gravel. Latch. Hinge and lock. Each noise grows amplified like a cradle of bees. And suddenly it seems not just a day but a year lost. There is the flavor of frost, a cloud-scrubbed sun, the rush of something dreadful yet to come, not haze nor drops on the mounting wind, but soon.


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