Crossing the Border

First the land gets dark, then the sky, & then the water.   This is how it works.   You turn the page & walk the line.   Dark passage veering off the reverence.   Revelation still a kind of threat with the light streaming through it.

From drownpool carnage to neon inscribed I kept the level gaze intact.   The least silken but reed brown greens of kelp-lit eyes & secret watery extensions were my guide.   What daydrums of cypress parse in sonic platitudes along the gypsy string breeze got snagged in high tension wires before I could ascertain the categorical echo.

Phaedra & Zonk & Proserpine in a vintage nightshade Mustang w/dual exhaust burning up the highway south.   “Apply your confessions carefully,” said Phaedra, “we are always 20 miles away.”   In telepathic shadows relay the bounce & jungle-vine lattice, the screendoor porchlight windchime & derivitave lament.   Just as descending fog aced the parking lot I turned away & back, to Proserpine, to the motive for escape, & from there noted the stain that blessed the curse.

A path of leaves & yellow grass only there to be tread upon littered w/jewels (the dust of galaxies beneath our feet or in the sky beginning to fade behind the wheel just as we crossed the border).   Dusty murmur of ragged palm trees attending & whoever they were they knew my name.