( via / via )

Symphony in mustard yellow.

"How long a time it was since I was here!
And yet I know not whether I have slept,
Or wandered through a dreary cavernous forest,
Struggling with monsters. 'Tis a quiet place,
And one inviting strangely to deep rest.
I have forgotten something: my whole life
Seems to have vanished from me to this hour.
There was a foe whom I should guard against;
Who is he?"

--Death's Jest-Book, IV. iii.

Tilt a whirl.

Last night I wandered the place, dousing the bulbs imbued
with space-filling fire that promised but weak insurance.

When I stopped at the single remaining, what it made
of the rough-plastered wall behind, for the first time fused

feeling and context, where I'd been and all the specters
I ever desired or fled as possible futures.

I thought: now I'm really here. (Whatever that implies.)
And this morning tying tie, I felt the peculiar

snag of serrated dead fingertip-skin against silk.
And I knew then mine was a madness that would be cured.

Fixed seed.