Layered Obsidian: Thick trinkets or monied apology forgotten for heft and fit. Looking for a verb for the layers… inhabit? cling? Plume of smoke less plume-y, more jet-y, straight up, a tight funnel. Chair upturned in the snow along U.S. 131, ungoogleable. The night of the crows and nests, inhabitable plume. Unfinished, raw. The dead leaves hang like bare metal, a thing kept and forgotten. Making to find a ghosted layer, a colored lens to adopt, to remember. There we were, there. Rest areas and rust. Starts surrounding the vein, the hardest bit or most something. Structure & fill whatever we make of it, passing through. No rules but how to fall.
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Layered Obsidian: Out of place, a narrow wooden bridge, limbs reaching at us, hood getting hot under sun, dust of road in our lungs, the way we hold our hands. She stands ankle deep, a clear slicing a talking that follows me in sleep. Layered obsidian on my desk, thick pines scattered, unpatterned. The just kept coming so fast, wanted a short nap, wanted to back up a little. Wind tosses shine outside our bedroom.
