Writing Scratches

One of the city’s walls begins to peel and it is a type of thinking.
There is no alleluiah or despair. It is pure, untrammeled process.
The truth is that consciousness is a sort of drift, a series of rest stops
or a musical composition where the mind must fill in between notes.

It is only too happy to do so. The mimosa outside this second story window
is pink and alone and thinking its way through a body. A piece of paper
the wind has placed in its branches is a palimpsest of sunlight.
Fish are swimming through a face’s page. We stare and try to unpaste

the two images we are seeing at once. So it is with seeing through
ourselves, the scrim of various personal pronouns, finer than any butterfly net
to which we are accustomed. But the same principle. It is still a net.
There is joy in brightly waking up, and there is joy in darkly understanding sleep.

That’s what the forest tells us when we enter it in the heat of afternoon,
the awareness of two images seeing us at once. Because these birds,
avatars of sunlight, are something we try to unpaste, the thinking wall of trees.
The walls begin to peel, but it is bark. It is a type of backwards home.

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