 You’re wearing planetary blue
today, your gaze turned inward to regard your self-geology. Yet something from the Atlantic intrudes on your compact solitude, something evolved in a tidepool distinct from tidepools you plumbed in your childhood by the Pacific. Planetary blue is the color migrating songbirds follow by day, their wingbeat quickened through thickets of radio waves broadcast just to confound them. You feel those signals mingle with respiration and heartbeat to birth you a bright new being that can live for only a moment. Your clothing drapes to resolve the gap between you and this other, this blue-winged creature no one believes will successfully fly.
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 An hour before dawn boulders
in the woods emit grayish light strong enough to wake people snoring in whitewashed suburbs or stashed in city apartments. Hiding in the woods, I’m used to this opaque illumination. But when I lived in the city I’d awaken in yellow sweat, unsure of which dream imploded. This post-glacial phenomenon hasn’t yet attracted scientists who could examine the light then crack open a boulder and assay its composition. They’d learn that only in sleep do stone and humans interact, preparing us for a distancing not even digital instruments can measure with any precision. |