Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Even the clouds, tending toward rain in bunches of infinite drops, actuate the possibility of a love straight into the sea. Each ocean needs this bursting refreshment, the bitter plying rush from the Concord to the Merrimack to insistent visitation of the great moody sea. The sea spends its endlessness in planning, which is just krill, shrimp, plankton and exacting diatoms in unguarded swaths and ready-made tenderness. Misty years burn thru the cold beneath the world's best water, assuming process. Misty years examine whale and shark, siding one way or another while remora take the ride. That ride extends into the history of lifetime, with wet pictures of opulent clouds. When clouds fall back to the sea, people rise and make morning. Morning has grey to a pinkness, as timely these people note. Then why more rain, more struggle, more clocks ahead? It's the sun craving, with wild wings of blindness. Such summery expanse will stop at nothing, until nothing itself becomes condition. And so the name, the name, the loss of number when unit persists. People talk and make clouds, clouds batter the rain, rain shifts infinite drops until nothing more to say. This is no problem, we say, as we straighten our look back. The clouds have been good to follow us so far. Do you see the pattern here?