and then our exile

stirring dull roots with spring rain (Eliot)

Flood of memory, time past and time present and time future, antithetical desires, not so much stirring dull roots as imposing other time-scales altogether--that the night itself seems to sleep, and i watching it breathe, exhale, from unfamiliar eyes and age-oulde folds, this double lag between and through perception and intimation, insinuation and acceptance, recoil and embrace, understanding and single-minded realignment, whatever the cost--if the weakest goal carries through, or an unexpected flower blossom, or my gut receive an endocrinal gift.

i go turn on the kettle. It's nearly 1am. Think of the sea.