Nothing But Objects
After Rosmarie Waldrop
The street stops time if you think about it. No movement not bordered by sound, which keeps going, moves slowly toward the ear on the other side of the window. The Dutch ride their bikes with their eyesight, though the ear senses three hundred and sixty degrees. It can even hear through buildings. Hold this cavernous shell to the edge of your face. See what comes out? The sound and smell of the ocean. The ear moves memory to its natural end. The ocean moves the body closer to the moon. It’s all gathering here, called down by gravity: this window, time slowing, the echo of your voice as you bicycle by.
The street stops soundly at the window. Find the border. The car moves on parallel. Silent. Do you chose to believe only what you can touch? Can you touch only what you can hear? Shadows move in tandem over the open chord of the dog across the street. A single bunch of golden rod sticks out from the fence. Silent. Hold them to your face. Feel the impossible in moments unchecked by sound.
The body is time. If you think about it, constantly dragging. The window moves slowly towards the ground. Light moves its opposite magic when it flows just right. Consider hedera helix. Its many hands make use of light. Cavernous energy. Though its vines shrink the body, light moves on. The body is vessel of light. And time moves through it. Not under. Not around. Not over. Through it, each instance a checking off as light slowly leaks. Each shadow a spectre. Each evening a memory of the end. Or beginning. The great emptying is either a process or a state. Either way. Either way.