Friday, November 30, 2007
After all these years, snow still falls like a needed silence. Bruises, bright snow, cold and true. You wake up every day coughing up gobs of bloody mucus and taking red out of your nose, tasting sediment. This is the logic of a frozen desert, snow on the ground but no water in the air, shrinking vocabulary. Think to pray to the world in a specific way. He tells you not to go over to the yurt where they are singing and emerging two by two to sway and make water. They breathe sighs of relief when you step back into the yurt camp because they did not know where you were and the mountain you had just climbed to watch the sunset is home to two wolves who terrorize the camp. Gradations of color and ice inside your nostrils. In the interstice of the freeze the cold is like metal object pressing on your face. The -scape soaks in sunset colors. Sometime after the facehurt cold begins. Once in your apartment, shower runs burning hot then cold. Breathe less; breathing bothers the dust particles. Rest easy, wake parched. Chinggia Xhan, according to legend, was born with a clot of blood in his fist.
Posted by Ming at 4:33 AM