Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Aborning

Good borning!  How did you sleep in heaven?
Any dreams of note?  Any storms?

I myself am aborned from slumber 
just this very day—remarkable
as it may seem, I am covered in skin
and hair and molecules and 
the sound of chimes in the wind

I was aborned in the bed that I died in
just last night, cares unravelled 
sheets and blankets and ghosts at play
on this particular bed's mantle, on its tectonic self

I sometimes sleep in heaven because it is weightless
no depth, really, just vague imaginings
of distant mountains, of children
of hawks and juncos and wheeling planes
and strangers looking for lost cousins, etc.
I think I heard a dog, sweetly sniffing the air

but still, a sense of dread abides in the light
the speed of it all, its blinding nature
some say it is pure, whatever that may mean
it is relentless, it is all pervading

the point of perfection is to agitate the senses

when i awaken I fall from heaven
the broken son, the one to blame
still, I fall and land aborning
in the atmosphere of my beloved earth
in the faint perfection that rises in the east


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