By now, I should have learned
this: how every sorely
needed spring precipitates
a necessary fall. Exhausted
in thought, piss-poor
in action, the weight of all
time seems to gather
and pool at the center
of each obsidian pupil
and disobedient black
hole ear canal—expressing itself finally
in formless light, colorless sound.
The pathways, overgrown
with it now and dissappearing
as the plot slowly thickens,
curdled with stiffness of
wind, clotted with silence
of still floodwater,
crippled by inertia; surely, the obstacle
becomes the way—but also
vice versa.
