… Danger everywhere, signs and portents,
miracles and catastrophes. The hammer of one ambition against another, fusion
and fission. And then an unending firestorm in the mind. Enter the grim reaper
of the death of spirit. Alarmed, I put my hand into the poultice of earth.
At my feet,
a wild trapezoid of new grace, her legs angling away from her body in a stretch
of memory holding snow, the midnight sun, the blue continuous night in her
paws, and despite that radiance, Isis, the great white wolf of the Arctic, is
helpless against the disappearance of the time before, the time before, the
time before, endless time disappearing.
To walk into
the unknown to make it known may not be the way. To open the door underground
and pass through, flooding it with Herculean light, may not be the way. To
streak in a straight line into the sky…
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