Sunday, 18 May 2008
Ravens todd about the sky like wind-blown leaves. White, and whites. Will the world end in white? Or we could say, winter construes the whiteness of tornados into something static? She says Atlases and he says Atli--it's a kind of game between them. Oranges, oranges, the bloom of their scarfs. The birds are a mess against the whiteness. She says muster, he says muster? mustard? She could speak up. He could be less deaf. The birds could quieten down a little. It's not as if the world is ending. The ice snip-snaps scissorlike when they step onto the puddles. The crack spreads, the cracks spread. It's not as if the world is untried, or untrying, or untryable. The copse of trees on yon hill: an acropolis. The west sucks the sun through the milk. Her mind is a blank. She thinks she remembers where they parked the car. She is trying to remember exactly where.