Atop an Idahoan precipice
Atop an Idahoan precipice I straddle the night and the dusk. The last colourless streaks of the haunting limbo through moments in which all the surfaces gasped to hold in the final long rays of the sun, are slowly wrapping away behind me. In spots the stored radiance of day sputters together into cohesive bits, entries back into awakedness, meticulously patterned fabrics hanging in a sequence from frame to frame, capsules of the city reaching out to me in elongated streaks, the fresh sap of the lively inner world prick’d and drawn across the night as I race away from it. The wall becomes more broad in proportion, in my vision, as I move ever away from it. The windows, streaming forth verdant waves to enfold the car, hold me in the waking night where actions take place and reactions are applied to situations that occur between my self and the objects that I encounter. The light from these windows casts long expansive capes across the lawn reaching just to the edge of the curb. These are the hopes held at a distance, the regeneration that the day finds in the night, slipping away across the curb and I down the eastern slope of an incessant hill, ever toward night. Capes and puddles of light showing out billow and lap at the street edges, await my footprints, lick the tire treads, shiver it all forward; they too, after long swelling, yearn for final repose. It is when the day remains as a limp sheet cast from the distant portcullis of dusk, becoming night from its distant edge, closest to me, beyond the violet veil, that the luminous arms, reaching across the globe and up into the plains recedes, pulled back toward the day drawing with it my vision as the trailing edge snuffs out each sprig of the grass as my fingers trace, even the stored breath of day, in each chamber, loses ground to night, the plants, the grasses, darkened in degradation.
High within the hemispherical cenotaph of full night the clothed windows of that final outpost show more distant than magnified starlight. The feelings beneath my fingers, pressed out from a void under my skin where erroneous ascriptions of a docility and tactility and vacillation against the objects which I grasp to anchor my sleep into the day, are the touch of wasted gifts I am leaving behind in those rooms. Cloaked in an actual blackness, beyond the empurpled strains of my reaching arm, a true night of parting. Each packet stands alone in humility, the space between them is at once intangible, useless, and, my hand grasping for those handles, edges, loops, rings, matted and diaphanous as they fade behind fine curtains, misses altogether and coasts through the darkness, casting over the windows waves of earth and shade, following me into the inevitably wide sky.
She will probably accuse herself. I am only being pulled along, propulsion, and the waves of motion that fold upon the matter that they swelled from spread me into the profile of those great trees that crenellate the horizon. I divide into each feathery, scalloped, eroded pocket of the purple nightsky. Inky, a paste of my self, smeared upon the flattened silhouette of the natural world grown up to stand in the city, a primeval crown of black leaves engaging the firmament, dragging it down with all of my fingers, a mortuary shroud for a slumbering cloud. My breath, the extreme unction of black bile coating each memory of day, of the walls my hands supported me against, of the arms of the alcoves that held me, the garb of the exorcist, violet, with a sheen glimmering on pale skin, through glass, in sleep, streetlights.
