I and the dreams begin, Â haphazardly like ramshackle Japanese makeshift cartoon door frames shuttering against each other in the wind of moths.
she awakes, open eyes and breathing like the rain adorning her horns of ivory, lake mountains and cast iron memories. To each their own.
and then the sunrise appears and with it the remembrance; bones pecking at the desert ceiling; holding on to the sand with crab-shell scuttle, the basement of contrition, opening, revealing, pressing onward, boats drifting back again.
she steps out of her oatmeal linen sheets in the morning sun like a melody from childhood and the grass burnt with sun of the newborn. she is light everywhere.
When you first posted this I enjoyed the word usage and imagery, and liked how there is a kind of narration breaking the lines of prose… but to be honest I still can’t wrap my brain around what is occurring… Reading this piece, for me, feels like looking at an abstract painting… I have the sense that it’s either describing something common in esoteric language or describing something esoteric in common language but I can’t put the pieces together…
That said, it seems like a real “art” piece, poetry for poetry’s sake… I kind of like that I don’t get it. I rather enjoy floating through the fragments of imagery… solar and lunar, abyssal night, womblike, images of birth and revelation… like a poetic rorschach… there are a lot of ways to interpret it.
It makes me think of something Joseph Campbell said: “If you ask an artist, ‘what does it mean?’… if he has contempt for you… he’ll tell you…”