Monday, September 4, 2017


Every fallen leave diminishes the autumn and the wind shakes down a thousand more. Is it just to make me sad? I am alone and the path is that sort of hard earth that is still waiting for the autumn of this place and rain.

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.

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