First solace.

First solace and the name of quietly overcoming.

This is the face of a peril shorn.

Time inside the pillow-frost of wishing.

The long carved-out space of a single gesture against the void.

Have you a name?

I have.

Have you situations in your background, such as those that one rarely speaks about or those that make a person both vulnerable and invulnerable to the same approaches?

I have.

All very useful, all an ample medium for making something new.

A means of making speech.

You are the utterance of a conveyance of interpolations.

An assemblage.

Of tiny delicate immensely powerful galactic structures.

Faint recollections.

Of the sprawling spawning of all possibility within the smallest space available. Sometimes there is nothing else in memory but that excellent beginning, that acceleration of dissonance among competing harmonies, that unique echo that is everywhere.

New light comes amid the cool. She is returning, beginning to return.

© 2002 Joseph Robertson

 

A PERIL SHORN
JOSEPH ROBERTSON

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