from Cold Turkey Press
FOR THÉOPHILE GAUTIER Leaning on the elbow of eternity, you say there is nothing——not the leafy green cathedral of trees, nor the rich scent of pine in the air——but space and shadows. And the rust-red earth of the road, where does it lead? To basement dust and attic relics. Perhaps to a hidden tide. The dead past is gone, the future with it. This is what is——the serenity of now suspended like cumulus clouds, the night freshened with rain and shafts of white moonlight so bright I can read you by the window. This is the tide hidden from the volcano’s molten flux. JH
