Bauble up you screwed on head, behold the blue bestrewn with light and the patinas of far distant vapors – as well the bay leaves murmuring in a light and pollen-laden wind: behold the self, disappearing on the crinkle and groan of a motorcycle engine, borne aloft on this exact edge of now, the place where everything happens, the time when time is most and least of meaning: behold the shadow-littered space between a person you love in a chair six feet away from you, breakfast bowl and cell phone. The motorcycle is halfway to Pope Valley by now but I am back in my heart, having returned through an open window with an earwig and a delicate swirl of dust.
Hymn to Small Movements
Hymn to Small Movements
Hymn to Small Movements
Bauble up you screwed on head, behold the blue bestrewn with light and the patinas of far distant vapors – as well the bay leaves murmuring in a light and pollen-laden wind: behold the self, disappearing on the crinkle and groan of a motorcycle engine, borne aloft on this exact edge of now, the place where everything happens, the time when time is most and least of meaning: behold the shadow-littered space between a person you love in a chair six feet away from you, breakfast bowl and cell phone. The motorcycle is halfway to Pope Valley by now but I am back in my heart, having returned through an open window with an earwig and a delicate swirl of dust.