Many see a flutterby when they look into this
omniscience I see as a skinniness too densely drawn or a mystery unhinged by its own symmetry, a twinning I think of as a listener that thinks along with me, fused in a tweed, a red herring- bone weave in the dazzling darkness and bleached afterness some see
as a necklace of brilliants curved in gift. As if!
A color visible only in ultra- violet light or a source beyond mathematics I think of as a second self, an underhum. Or thought. Till I saw innocence tortured by a force beyond kindness, an unconditional indifference
or wick for wickedness that wanted trauma dolls.
I tell this as a clock tells time but telling can’t diminish it
as clocks can’t dwindle time. Am I still alive? Birds that sing behind a waterfall, horses kneeling Christmas Eve are what others see in what I see as us delivered up to this chill that searches me.
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Roar Shack
Alice Fulton (B.1952)
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Graphic - Alvīne Bautra (B.1990
