A Curator's Note
One another’s voices like the sea, sounding a silver call. Shades of grey let me be the blood in the mountain, in the riverbed. And you’ll discover me singing, “For what it’s worth, I knew you.”
Let it out for seas over sand, over depth and distance, over shoreline and momentarily over my head. Up to my hips. Sketching a new moon while the fledgling rises and falls over the waters we know nothing of. Unexplored. Unreasoned. Always rising, retreating at the call of the moon. Blocked up silvers, restraining the light from leaking through.
I’ll be unfinished, undone. Pushed up against a feverish thought. Flightless bird, altogether heaven bound with a beating sound. I wont hear them for years and then they come, circling back into season, lifted by a new wind. All when I’ve been silent for what I’ve known to be a growing method of rock against sea. As if I’m coming to, I’ll follow sound and distance into a dreamt universe, where there’s awakening after awakening.
And what if I were to be God speaking in whispers to you? I’d unmistakably ask you, “The fish or the man?” God or not, I’ll be a glow on your lavender eyelids in a night when the future is too far out. Rush white-washed river run as if to catch the wailing wind.
- e. f. cianci