plume now scratches the screen at

{Thursday, May 27, 2004}

she never thinks of the night as something that stretches. the dark is precise and the hourglass hesitates. you can't gather it in fistfuls.

she peels sheets of darkness until dawn.

uneven pen-strokes to note what she wishes to remember. sometimes she searches under the cover of her eye-lids for imprints of the open.

it is so dark because all dictionaries turned to palimpsests.

manuscripts, illuminated only by a half-moon.

always the same half.

in the morning, the mirror, too, might turn into a window.

she turned the pages as if they were planets in orbit.

she wasn't as much reading as looking for the blank spaces to be filled with her own thought.

always the same one.

that's the way to make the dark last.

but the moon is iron and stars are all rust.

plumed @ 12:59 AM | 0 comments



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est. feb. 5, 2004 A.D.

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