Because, when all is said and done, the voices in the distance are sound.

Somewhere, across the slate and the dead lawn and above the brave lemon tree, vague words of surprise.

And like a

square of colour, say dark green, no explanation, about anything, comes to mind.

Instead (for awhile) the beat of misgiving persists.

Not loudly, mind you, but persistent, and could be attended.

Not a sermon, but a trace of powder,

a scent, that is already nostalgic. And, although redundant, poised.

 

And there are small explosions, many,

dogs barking all about.

Fireworks, not gunfire.

 

There are scrapings.

 

Something is going on, footsteps and shouting. A man yelling: You Come Again.

And more

blurred

words.

 

A whole planet is

 

over the fence.

 

Stories of dogs have been in the news, ripping women apart. Attacking in packs. It's an omen. There are no sirens, just cars roaring and screeching.

It's a deep

sleep night.

 

This is the time for addiction.

There is no return.

The room spins around.

To die for resilience, that would be a joy. But, and, in the presence of the faint music,

the odds are dismal.

 

 

The siren again, several perhaps, above the music, and below the pale watery moon. Stealing from the very spell of order, the pattern of worry. The force like flare, folding the strain smoothly, dragging regret into the field, to the muddle there. You can't help but be a bit moved, in terms of what are necessary things, cause, something to be included. OK, the sentence brings itself as company. You, are its effect, and that is entirely a glamorous condition. The birds are asleep, a cat calling. It's not necessary, sure, but necessary still. Who stops, to be eaten, hardly a soul, and that is so, so, and then the thing happens, something, out of the blue. Discreet as you are, that is the graph of the person who must, in dismay, take this in hand, and it's another science, that has an x degree, and 'blue' and 'error'.

Get well, with the smell of animals.

Plants love women singing, except cucumbers, they prefer the flute.

 

 

 

 text ~ Linda Marie Walker

film still~Peter Shevlin from

The Drowning Of Echo