To hurry or to hesitate would blemish
the simultaneous interaction of the lines.
The strokes of a steadier hand that paired
the smoother translation of words already written,
soon is burdened with rhyme and corrupted by revision.
Left in an unfinished state, one poised for visitation,
is waiting on a train in a rural place,
where the air is heavy with anticipation.
The scent of burning brush,
the sound of the cicadas before dusk
fades seamlessly into the call of nocturnal tree frogs.
The depot is a clearing amidst the confusion,
in the thickest of swamps, somewhere south
submerged like cypress in black pools of thought.
You’ll fill them with headlights, beaming into the abandon
like a thrust of insight and silence in tandem.
The indecipherable attempts to apprehend
what in essence retreats or withstands being hemmed in.
Peeling back layers of reclamation,
a transformation of what lies within, as opposed to the surroundings,
unraveling congruent lines, convoluted and captive,
from the kudzu vines.
In the places ideas get lost, those intervals between words
that murmur like the cover, where sentences run on tracks
just to end abruptly in nowhere.
You get a perfect picture of that border and wonder
Is this where creativity resides?
Being? Non-being?
Careening through this landscape of collision,
and the shape shifting textures
superimposed on the vision.
Somewhere there’s a clearer picture than mine,
an expression that yields to
the simultaneous interaction of the lines
running unimpeded through the forest
until they’re found in far away outposts of the mind
and in the glimmer of distant tracks.
yakskinpocketnotes 