of something else kept awake by silence.
order, lyric, black words on white paper evoking
redness, a life archs from the straight arrow of proceeding
in this way of defiance. so milk rises to bread. so weather raises
the clock. the simple vehicle of sleep transporting us to tomorrow,
while unmade sheets of text intimate at what can be laid to rest. I am
thinking of jacques-louis david, who drew his pale, thinking figures nude
before painting clothing on them, or how someone once told me in kindness
that having daughters was the only way to heal from the loss of a mother.
there is an ethics in all of this—in the meeting of branch and rightness
and outburst and idea, this impossible motion moving stillness. writing rain
to write the land it falls upon, to write the river fecund suddenly with storm,
and the girl running home with the collar of a jacket pulled over her head,
with the piano heard somewhere playing prelude op. 28 no. 15, because
chopin heard the rhythm of drops on his roof in a dream, and believed
himself to be drowning. therein lies it. illusion. declaration. the music.