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Sand

 As if everything were something. You see rife but each grain bears a word. Words don't stop: shadow frame fields . A geology of words promulgates some statute of promise. Whole worlds needs forgetting, one syllable at a time. The Ur of thought, city state and grunt. Grains of sand, once aggregate, a moment. Sand has been in process forever, to the limits of +ever as a word. The teeth of water and wind have ground, and have grounded. You feel sand in your shoe since ancient times and now. You can only listen minutely, a system of wind and rain that sets your city-state beaming. Here the ancient minute, as you understand.


Comments

Bob BrueckL said…
The shadow of my
teeth grunts.

Minutely whole
syllables of
rain beam,
only forgetting to listen
to the limits of
words
for once.

The ancient process
is rife with
moments of
something that
feels like forever.


December 30, 2023 at 2:17 PM
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