Walking in Isolation (III)

By | 31 October 2021

what plinth-moment is this, allowing the display of bark:
twisted, straight, or notched with achievements? a swing-
set attaches pathways to opportunities, weaving shadow-
lines into an iron crown. & the real presence logs
in each morning by walking poems around the rocks,
alert to small movements beneath a crumpled tarp-.

-aulin. part-serpent, part windsmith, the shroud-tarp
wraps sections of darkness into itself. bite worsens bark,
at least in this imagined scenario, tripping on sharp rocks
in the rush to hospital or clinic, struck heel swing-
ing with painful defiance. then there’s a line of cut logs,
mute & afraid, like bystanders or disciples in shadow,

having denied everything by the fireside. each shadow
betrays its origins in the bruise of sky, like the flat tarp
strung up as background. heading out beyond the logs
of prophecy there’s a river & a tree, yet, the claim of bark
is the claim of a textured present. the expedition must swing.
between corrugations & smooth surfaces, between rocks

& hill-sliced moments. if people mute themselves, the rocks
will cry out. but if they unmute, then the hungry shadow-
folk gather on the edges of screen. knowing this, the swing
rises to touch the horizon, pausing for a second as the tarp
flaps with a measure of acclaim. a gap in the tree’s bark
can grasp the universe in its ocular supremacy, staring down logs

that have been portioned & measured. the tiny webcam logs
its own reality, light glinting outside the terms of reference. rocks
& stones like boxes ready to be ticked. mene mene… dogs bark
at the sight of a disembodied hand, those scrawled orders, shadows
of untranslated dawn in handwritten snatches. meme meme… it’s a tarp!
typo or textual variant, sun grasps pen at a banquet, time swing-

ing in massive arcs, psalming the hundreds of open tabs where swing
voters weigh the future. thanks to democracy then, the camera that logs
discontent, gifting small victories like sparrows. note the forensic tarp
descending as though the world consisted of sheer evidence, as rocks
tumble down the hillside, exiting the administration’s bubble, shadow-
blending the unthinking with the unthinkable. unruly grass, hard bark,

unused swing-set: what untraveled route sighs in the billowing tarp?
what shifts with the wind’s reversals, as silent logs prepare their bark
for an offering & a shadow catches breath between the rocks?

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