|| perfection in the space of a summer afternoon. Amateur geology at low tide. Identifying rock formations from the Triassic. Running hands along colors and shapes and patterns formed from the bending and buckling of the earths crust. River beds now upright. Filling pockets to over flowing with rocks and seaglass and crystal filled geodes and fossils and fashioning a flannel shirt into a makeshift bag for the rest. Tidepools with fish and squid and shrimp and crabs. The tide flooding into the bay of fundy a distant but undeniable engine of power. A waterfall and the trek behind. Tossing out hands and then heads under the spray and laughing out loud. Muddy feet and  suntanned faces. Everything right with the world. ||

|| perfection in the space of a summer afternoon. Amateur geology at low tide. Identifying rock formations from the Triassic. Running hands along colors and shapes and patterns formed from the bending and buckling of the earths crust. River beds now upright. Filling pockets to over flowing with rocks and seaglass and crystal filled geodes and fossils and fashioning a flannel shirt into a makeshift bag for the rest. Tidepools with fish and squid and shrimp and crabs. The tide flooding into the bay of fundy a distant but undeniable engine of power. A waterfall and the trek behind. Tossing out hands and then heads under the spray and laughing out loud. Muddy feet and suntanned faces. Everything right with the world. ||

paperbackwords
I’ve been lonely for a long time now, hoping anyone who I perceive as better than me will scoop me up on a night kite rescue mission and love me so hard that I can finally forget about this feeling left over from all the years my blood was boiling. Dear Gravel, it doesn’t work like that. If anyone ever loves you that hard, hard as you’ve been dreaming, chances are you will not believe them
until you accept yourself.
Buddy Wakefield, Start (via andreagoldston)
fables-of-the-reconstruction

Resonance

fables-of-the-reconstruction:

The hieroglyphics of sunset written on the bay’s water:
your sad eyes the moon has lit its little fires inside of.
The wind untangling itself from streetlights and trees:
your voice hollowed out by a loneliness I can’t name.
The heat lightning hesitating in the dark corridors of the night:
the meanings for your love that flicker like a worn neon bulb.
More and more these things shimmer on the spider’s web
of despair. Resonance is what the scientists call it,
the heart’s quivering responding to a nightingale’s trill.
It’s the way two molecules line up the exact same way,
or how two split beams of a light echo each other’s
movements no matter what the other encounters.
Resonance. A far train sounds, a hunter’s echo fills
the forest, and I shudder to think of a life without you.
The wake of a long-gone boat squints along the shore
and my love starts to ache like a phantom limb.
The screen here is filled with tiny worlds of water—
it’s like looking through the thousand eyes of a fly
at a world where we can be everywhere at once.
It doesn’t matter what seems to be only here. In Prague
you can see Albrecht Durer’s Feast of the Rose Garlands
that’s missing the fly he painted on the virgin’s lap
some hack covered over in restoration. In this way
we understand how important it is to love every lost
detail—the phone numbers, gloves, scarves, checkbooks,
flowers, loves, glasses, stories, earrings, keys,
the stones we walk on that echo an age we have forgotten,
the language you invent as you sleep, your words that ignite
the stars, your words that rise like birds from the trees.
What is it that you talk to in words that leave their shapes
like receding waves? Resonance: the way sounds echo
among interrelated counters in the head. I heard once
of fishermen who could hear the low rumbling sounds
from the hollowed heads of croaker, hardhead, fish you have
to answer just to relieve your own loneliness. It’s the same
way with seers who talk to stones. Because every word
we say means how alone we are. Maybe our memories are
useless, maybe our words won’t save us. In Baghdad, Shiite
militia drill holes in the heads of Sunnis to make them talk.
I did not want to have to say that but it’s a matter of resonance,
one thing leading to another the way a hang glider catches
thermals that keep rising, surrounded by hawks on the one hand,
by vultures on the other. Now the heat lightning has stopped.
The wind rests its head on a branch. I don’t know what else
to tell you. The cicadas’ feet are stirring to song. Maybe
resonance is the texture of feeling, the depth of a look that is
something like the shadows stars cast on the sky. I am
imagining what you’ll say, words like clouds avalanching
on top of each other, these little details, a glass of stout
that froths over, the wine stain on your lips, until one day,
all of a sudden it is today, now, and you turn to me, and speak
without talking, meanings that rise like steam after rain,
a touch like a cool cloth on the head of a dying man.

Richard Jackson

|| home. It’s sticky summer heat and a beach with no water and the air buzzing electric with insects. It’s family reunions and kissing my baby niece for the first time. It’s a summer house with no hot water and boiling water to wash dishes. It’s the long dirt hill down to the beach and the way we carefully stepped our way through a driftwood graveyard. It is my beloved Queen Anne’s Lace with her valiant Purple Heart. It’s is here my heart finally slows and my breath deepens. Here I root down and feel my own blood jn the soil beneath my feet. It is here I am home || (at cheverie, nova scotia)

|| home. It’s sticky summer heat and a beach with no water and the air buzzing electric with insects. It’s family reunions and kissing my baby niece for the first time. It’s a summer house with no hot water and boiling water to wash dishes. It’s the long dirt hill down to the beach and the way we carefully stepped our way through a driftwood graveyard. It is my beloved Queen Anne’s Lace with her valiant Purple Heart. It’s is here my heart finally slows and my breath deepens. Here I root down and feel my own blood jn the soil beneath my feet. It is here I am home || (at cheverie, nova scotia)