Monday, September 4, 2017
The grasses are dry and brown. Who says that sleep only comes in winter. This pot of bamboo is in an end-of-summer torpor just as deep. But what am I saying?
Is the bamboo the stalk? The section? Does it only exist in the plurality of stems? I am not considering the roots, the runners, contained in by the pot, which is a there or here depending on how close I am standing, but still a space defined by terra cotta. If I consider these facts for too much longer I will indict language and my senses as criminals committing malfeasance against the person and body of knowledge, which is, itself a word.
The modality that was warm certainty is shifting now to cold approximations. When I was a child, I imagined tiny agile ghosts in the whirlwinds. It was difficult to see them except when they were dancing in gyres of sand and flakes of dead skin. If I leave time at the foot of the hill, I can see them again on the aged and cracked edge of the pot.
The ghosts kick at the dead leaves, as though it is a swimming pool.