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| Beneath A Cloud Roger Mitchell |
So much of it is or seems (who knows the difference?) transplanted, uprooted, dangling, frittered. I like invisible, though visible has its properties, proprieties, its strange amazements. I’m equal to the bees, let’s say, transparent, bespattered, rearranged, though not without being first arranged. How or by what, I don’t ask. Gathered, scattered, secret. Here for a moment. In terrible, terrifying, ordinary distance from matter and things, from reasons I can’t see the reason for. Lucid and fluid. I look out the window. Do things in stages, leave them unfinished, believing that nothing ever becomes completely. Is always coming about, around. Sometimes remembered. Remembered again, but fragmentarily, or by someone else. Ancient, delirious, wise, unable. Shouted across a field. Fallow, hollow, hallowed. Done in the dark, all of it. At dawn, on a Tuesday or Friday. All of it always arriving. Convinced, confused. Knowing and unknowing. A cloud beneath a cloud. A sky bringing all of itself along. |
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