Sanctuary

I drove to the border of cloud and watched ghosts dance about its edge like waves on the sand. From here I can see the land bathed in thunderous sunlight; even from the shadows I can see that the world is filled with such beauty. There is a gossamer veil of mist, impermeable and unforgiving, that separates our world from theirs. Toeing the end of shadow, I can sometimes make out the holes in the sky where what lies behind pierces through – stars. I’ve tried to paint them, but white is hard to come by in this land between the highways.

(From the base of the clouds where the ghosts spy, we are probably only a contour cutting its way through mountainside and ocean shore, unalarmed and indiscriminating.) I asked the ghosts where white tones are found, and they indicated the cemetery. But, as I said, that veil is impenetrable; thus I stand in a meadow drenched in hues of grey so that the highway is indistinguishable from the patch of Queen Anne’s Lace to my right. I stand looking into a sun meant for a painter of white. I stand looking into a sun that whispers lines I don’t understand.

Shelter

Sept. 18: Dangerous conditions today on the Tennessee River.

The wind struggles with the current; the water churns behind the pylons.

Even the sky is in turmoil.

 

I am the surface of the water. I am broken; a fractured frame of glass,

stretched thin from shore to shore. All I can hear is the wind tearing

upstream, toward my home.

 

The furniture in the living room rearranges to accommodate the flood.

Soon we will live in an aquarium with glass walls, so all can see:

we are bent by the current.

 

(Slowly, with time)

 

5:35 pm; I can hear the blood pulsing in the veins behind my ears.

The wind has died down, and all besides that steadfast throb is quiet.

I am alive; I am a being.