Sarah Cooke: Despair

Spring '11 TOC

It was I found my feet afloat.  First one on the pavement one.  Then the next as if expecting consciousness but – disappointed.  A little splash of blood on a feather.  An overlooked flourish.  And a small body by the roadside.

The Complexity.  Disassembled.

In the evening when the sky is clear the waning sunlight separates into bands of color.  Up close, I imagine, moving from one to the next happens in gradations.  But from a distance – or an airplane – there is no melding.  Just abrupt disorientation.

How can nothing be solid?  The line of vision is never liberated.  They build buildings too tall.  But maybe that’s supposed to redirect the line.  Just go with it.  Float where you stand (disassembled).  Nothing can possibly be solid.  Only accepted.  Surrender – in the best sense of the word – is the only certainty.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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