Telling: Streams & Logs


everything's reflective


It was one of those days, the sky
pale and bright, and all the darkness
tucked up close to the trunks of the trees.

There seemed to be no in between,
that sky, this plane. No complexity.
Nothing touched anything long enough
to be absorbed.

The clear broad ribbon of road, its grey
almost white in this light, seemed to promise,
now that you'd begun, to carry you just so
forever, without cease or complication.

The car speakers, being old, sputtered out
and left you suspended in that instant of infinite stillness.