When standing in the shower each morning, he would forget whether or not he’d just shampooed his hair, and the events of the last few intimate minutes thus became | a matter of mystery, food for Dashiell. In the same way, seated at the breakfast bar, he wouldn’t be able to recall if he’d taken his medication, and would stare uneasily down at the foil-backed packet of capsules, lost in that no-man’s-land between the moments | memory. A few instants later, he lifted his head into a forest, and found he was gazing through the mist at a herd of deer in a clearing: the morning was hushed and clarified, and unutterably fresh, as if these animals had walked only a few steps from the beginning of everything, and this whole world was | close to creation

She lifts her head from a magazine and checks the departure board | Primitive hunters move through the lounge, and the fairy ghosts of her thoughts | confect another moment of distraction | The silence of unknowing fills everything, but precisely through its ubiquity does it become unfelt, or felt so gently, it might seem a form of knowledge | They announce the opening of the gate, and the article on super-storms is already beginning to slip from her mind || This was the day they buried a great star

 


from Semapolis | City of Signs
(series of poems, unfinished, 2012–present)

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