Before long the sycamores will show their white limbs, the massive platter-sized leaves a stack of brown biomass in my backyard. Everything starts over again, repeating shamelessly. Arresting blossoms pull me over for a look-see: roses in October, August like September like August: it just doesn’t quit. A lake around the girdling world, something flows underneath us, causes the vacant lot on the corner to swell as though it were turning into a hill. It is perilous not to smile, but hard to recall: if I were anyone, I’d have no problem facing it. Dirty clouds scum over soppy air the birds just walk over.
The best approach: to remain open, receptive to whatever. I can’t remember anything about dying: it’s as though life began when you least expect it, filling the fashions with windows, grabbing what you can. If they can neither see nor hear you, it renders you invincible by invisible. I prefer going about my day this way, hovering a few centimeters, not enough for folks to notice, collecting moments. Am I an ethical agent? Yes, you are an ethical agent. Prove it. No, you are a secret agent. This wandering through the bardo of never knowing what happens next worries me sometimes: I only appear inside houses, filled as they are with situations the wall can barely cope. Status of the observer: witness and censor both.
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |