(no subject)

Ways it can still be a ball of gold:

If appearances are the only reality.

If we treat appearances as real because that's just our nature.

If gold itself is in the wanting.

If gold itself is in the seeking.

If close up we didn't recognize its real value like we did from afar.

If an evil somebody switched it while we weren't looking.

If we misremember what it was like up close, and really it was gold and we had it golden and weeks of years of golden days gold among gold.






 

(no subject)

A woman almost old in a car in the dark.
Looking at the steering wheel thinking a thought.

The shadow across it there from some bar of the car has every shadow behind it and is part of every other shadow and they knit into something with no shape or bottom though it's under everything and every tear that you and that anyone if there is anyone ever cried is surely still falling in it and no tear ever touches another and no light touches any and a moment comes when you fall right through the paperthin surface of things and you hear the whole surface tear up to bits and fly upward like draftdrafted feathers above you and it's you that falls then and that fall is all falling like the shadow's all shadows and tears and leaves and nights and days and empires and markets and hopes and little dull men and sad tiny ladies and furious diving devils fall with you in that one fall in that one dark until the light of the words that thought is in go out and the lips that might have spoken them peel apart from one another and finally fall each alone.

The maze of matter circles there and spirals in and pours into the mount and spreads into the car and rolls down as the tires and kisses itself into the great globe of worldmeat so full and warm it rolls three ways at once and so much of it garden sand gardens and sea gardens and green gardens and night gardens and rain gardens and fillions of scampering skipping and stomping and sliding and sidling and splaying and slumping feet and curling and tipping toes in muds sands silts on floors flats floodplains in meadows mountain snow megamalls and so many knees bending swaying steadying stopping shaking resting creaking craning uncertain or bold or bemused under fat and complacent and slow upper legs with their shines and their hairs and their cools and their smooths and their simpleness, modest backs turned to the hothouse complexities nested above them and handshake parts blink parts and laugh parts past those.

A woman by herself starts a car in the dark.
Her car in the night turns like a thought.