Running late. The medication is starting to work and I can see a bit clearer now. The Oracle gave me a cadralor. Nothing to do with anything.
Things we see, or don’t
1. In my forest there are roses, the sun slips between bird-strung boughs and the rain in silver patters, language of dreams.
2. He brought me flowers, gave me slabs of meat to cook, his friends to tolerate, loud and boorish. No one noticed when I slept in the garden.
3. I remember a pair of shoes, blue. She never wore them, like the red dress, not me, she said with a smile. it stormed when she died. She’d have liked that.
4. There’s a picture of the north pole, how it was, with the ice and the long black shadow of a white bear. All gone, but we prefer palm trees and sun anyway, so no loss.
5. A celebrity’s plastic face, souped-up sunsets, Ferraris and Porsches, a selfie taken with the moon in a space station, none more beautiful than the daisy, crushed beneath your tread, rising again, slowly.
I was finishing writing a cadralor poem this morning and it struck me that it’s the perfect form for the Oracle. Each stanza takes the words/theme from a different page of words and the Oracle slips in the message in the closing stanza. It’s a hypothesis anyway. This is what she just gave me.
To be, and not to be
1. Rust, such a pretty colour. Though it comes from ruin and decay, creeps in the sordid places, acid-damp, it runs the woods with the deer.
2. You always said I was blue, hair the colour of bilberry juice, honey-skinned. I was a peach by any other name. I never told you what that was.
3. Day screams before it soars into the world the moon has left bereft, the raw cries of owls, drunk with sunlight, fading.
4. Crush these dried lavender flowers; the smell will linger for centuries in the fabric of gowns packed in a cedar chest, as long as it is never opened.
5. We wish for the rain to stop, like we wish the bitter words could be unsaid, the war never started, but the sea is still the sea, and salt water will never run in this stream.