Images, not moments, recreated, not recollected, in the imagination, not the memory or the senses, translated to, not from, the salmon in the stream the bear at play the black trees and the silver bay.
Mountain brinks imagined time, matter, space. Old, deep, horizon; no tree grew no hawk flew.
Cut by and cutting rock the water falls and flows where it must go, in motion, like emotion cut by words, and cutting.
a rill like glass a stem of ice
In October ’46, a storm made of Nome an island, and on its shore, the old saloon a tidepool of the Bering Sea.
the vicarious fuck of storm and sea rhymes impels with swells and urge with surge.
Eagles cut the sky by day. By night, wolves skip through the grass. Blind to the secret in the bush, we observe the bulbous moon. We see the wind move the trees, and say our love is like that.
December 1977 - February 1978