“The flex between what was and what will be is one dimension of the now. The future and the past are with us in the present; they inhabit it as skeleton, and neither is inert.”
There is the hushed conversation. In softest terms, it is pastels.
Arriving like the coming of dusk in winter. The trees are heightened
to seem more present. They are naked but the air is still warm.
And around us, windows closed.
Amongst this coloured dialogue, the whispers. A gallery
of previous hangings. With us, the bones of the prior.
We decorate ourselves in stones.
We extract elements from waste rocks. We wear compositions
of chemicals around our necks. We give them to demonstrate love.
This ancestral practice of giving earth to one another
Iron carbon sulfur hematite limestone garnet
pyrite magnetite quartz galena talc calcite diamond:
the composite sentences
of revolution, the language talking. The overlapping waves
reduction production protection subduction
extraction erosion extrusion expulsion eruption
A solidness to the air when we exhale. Winter
is coming and we already are cold, do not have enough layers.
When there is resistance, land will fold in on itself.
It will create a depression and give way.
Exposure to outside agents leads to erosion
submission that can take millions of years to generate or
And there we were, taking a walk along the beach, kicking at sand
letting our hands sway casually, keeping stride. When the sea crashed
the rocks followed the waves back out, us along the shore, feet at water’s edge.
Recumbent folds occur when overturned folds are pushed down
through extraneous compression and then they will lay flat.
Fragmentation, or weathering, can occur in two ways. The first is physical
and occurs most commonly in dry or cold regions where rocks breakdown
into smaller pieces. There is no change chemically. The second is formation
of secondary minerals through chemical alteration to the primary minerals.
This to say that, in spite of appearances, rock is never inert.
That night when we saw the wild horses at the top of the mountain
picking their way between old stones left from war, there was silence
in the car, all of our windows open and the wind stirring
only their manes, their long dark tails against the moon. We, against cushion
and glass, were still. This was the only response we knew, to be still.