What will come to be is still murky.
Where shadows drown, light surfaces.
In this developing dream, when the blackout shades are drawn,
the aperture is opened a fraction
and you slowly permeate the room
as through a lava cave.
At a loss and trapped, perhaps an unsolved disappearance,
the camera focuses on the cracks and seams in the mystery,
the lens examines the unseen, blends it with words.
You slip in another, leaf the river, bearing witness
you clasp clouds and soften the dissonance,
like the glow of early morning burning the fog away.
This hesitant unlocking, eyes no longer opaque
but clear and mirroring the skies,
like a celebration, an unveiling
from under hazy disguise.
This light is like a glittering shell in someone’s memory,
in the plucking of the seaweed’s strands,
it’s the underwater melody.
Pulling at a weight that trembles from beneath,
as on a fishing line,
you hope that more than just luminous,
it is sturdy enough to pull that image,
abstract and misshapen, to the surface.
You mold it in dark rooms
or let it slip back into the gloom,
more like a coin than an anchor in the grey,
to the darkest cormorant shade of forgetting.
Try as you may to trawl these depths,
getting caught in the psychic nets
spread over surfaces,
what’s left but to venerate and transform with purpose?
What’s caught, what’s lost in a moment’s remembrance?
If we can gain access to the hidden resources,
to a cache of images and associations
expressing themselves
through illuminated corridors and mines,
we initiate the infinite renewal,
see change as transcendence
the evolving acceptance that shines.
yakskinpocketnotes 