Night Swimming

September 24, 2013 § Leave a comment

Earth is old. Dry of age, dry of want, see her languish back upon herself like a dissatisfied lover. I trace her crumbling along tiny fault lines, from rock to boulder to lacebark elm and rest my bare feet at the old roots for a blinking moment. Then, quickly I flee, pounding through the leafless dark, searching once again: searching for the green, the damp, the jeweled grasses sleeping in the east.

A sudden halt, my pounding feet arrested by a cool splashing. Crests of dark water, wild in their basin, come roiling up the wide red bank of the midnight beach to crash against these dusty olive pillars like young tsunamis. Old cotton shivers in a fresh wind; released, it flutters down to the dry red sand. Deeper and deeper the pillars go, striding resolutely in a ribald march to the center. Eyes up, then, treading through the star waves, the heavens rippling over skin and hair and sibilant body. Ears beneath the surface hear no pings of responsibility, fingers, detached from the sharp blinking screens trickle limpid through the black wet something, lightless and unencumbered. We glide in a starry silence, devoid of prickling necessity – harried by land and graceful by sea. I am limitless, floating airy beneath the belts and winks and glimmering flirtations in the wide expanse of sky. Sky-sheet water-bed sinking.

There is no greater disconnect.

 

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