The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Tuesday, January 3, 2023

Every Ending Should Make a Sound

Fur should make a sound, pursing lips should. When a pupildilates or a chimney swift dives. The urn, full of what a personwas. Paint, old wool, the mountain. We should. Every reliquary,every fault, every grave should make a sound. Vines of howthey hold up the ruin. All the people who were here with usand now aren’t. Dark should. This room. Dirt aboutwhat it knows of what’s now in the urn. Lines as theybreak the edges of a mouth. Any last day spent alone.  

--CJ Evans

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