'23 Ceòl mòr
another page in the diariccycle
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedWhen the air is the high water.
Your throat, your spine.
Your nails a-clack and coffin-cut
like the chasing paper’s tines.
When heaven’s middle stills
its clouds full pockets of currents;
The riverbed we can’t escape.
Only anchor’s my horns, my horns
our roots now.
Horns, promise me, for my parade.
No grave, just currents; no spot
—a Waldo in the bardo—
An orchard, perhaps. The rain calling for bed.
That way I will travel with you.
That way I drowned will sing for you, my call ends
At home with the world.
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years: