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cold winding assignment 9 going down chicago line - rhotic [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]

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cold winding assignment 9 going down chicago line [Sep. 19th, 2006|01:15 pm]
standing again at the docks,
like somebody's father or mother before you.
with the same energy of those who stood there before,
but perhaps not those who built the dock - as that's for working,
not standing.

and the rain falls and rises like each quantum sea monkey
is playing frisbee with its own body,
about a medium it does not discern.

and sleeting moves in a rhythm like a band playing in some cafe
near the docks
that you entered into,
but that does not acknowledge your having entered.
and the coffee steam passes the small coolness that the rain droplets
have become on your face,
and not the sweatshirt hood you forgot in the car because you forgot the rain.
and the thought is washed down in a hot slinky,
and a coffee taste like rising dust,
as you swallow. the warmth
becomes a small center in you,
a small mythology walled away from the driving rains,
the other world, the map at its corners,
which is read into the minutes as a necessary opposite,
because the flood must always be in the future, and never now.
and they must be safe and warm, and so not otherwise.

and standing back out on the pier near a few fishermen,
who cast and swear against the wind,
and are returned time and time again,
by its promise -

the ocean suddenly seems as deep as it's supposed widely
to be. a gate on your way that you never noticed
until someone asked you why it's always closed.

and a wave interfered with by post of the docks,
spits impassively into the air
and sanguinely your face is traced
by wet mother fingers, when they seem careless
and cruelly devoid of you.

and it can't be undone until you are undone,
it just goes on.
the wind addressing the ocean
and you caught in it,
trying to explain to some small coastal town
inside of you,
that there is no such thing as a flood.
but they are too cold to listen very long,
and so are swept away, as you turn to go indoors.
and the wind gives a long one,
as if it was anything at all.

someday soon, you will not be thinking about the ocean,
until suddenly the sky rememories you
that you are diving into it, flood and all.