Dusted

[rejectomorph]

Smoke and mirrors. I see myself here, waiting for the sky to clear. I might have been waiting an age, so slowly does the sky change as dusk falls, so far does my mind wander out of time. This obscurity reminds me that I have forgotten too much. I have forgotten what I've forgotten. All the burning paths— or rather all that was not path but defined what was— is adrift, and conceals the moment's distance. It's as though there's nothing beyond this place but vague forms vanishing as night descends. I'm unsure how I got here. I realize for a moment how little attention I pay anymore. I dozed, and when the world began to burn I didn't even realize that I no longer recognized it. This place seems so small. But how do I find my way beyond it, now that the world is trackless ash?




Sunday Verse

Bresson's Movies

by Robert Creeley


A movie of Robert
Bresson's showed a yacht,
at evening on the Seine,
all its lights on, watched

by two young, seemingly
poor people, on a bridge adjacent,
the classic boy and girl
of the story, any one

one cares to tell. So
years pass, of course, but
I identified with the young,
embittered Frenchman,

knew his almost complacent
anguish and the distance
he felt from his girl.
Yet another film

of Bresson's has the
aging Lancelot with his
awkward armor standing
in a woods, of small trees,

dazed, bleeding, both he
and his horse are,
trying to get back to
the castle, itself of

no great size. It
moved me, that
life was after all
like that. You are

in love. You stand
in the woods, with
a horse, bleeding.
The story is true.