The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

October 3, 2016



nothing. there's nothing magical here, the rain was falling
heavily, mist everywhere, leaves dripping in the glade, fungi
glistening, teetering near the century-old iron lacework plank
that passes for a bridge, the scent of the world which almost
but not quite seems primordial; yet, within this narrow window
the sense of a clinamen, a/the swerve or bypass, the imminent
permission to see, or aptitude of sight, appetition of site,

everything. there's everything magical here, water rising
lightly from the ground, the heaviness of the mist, trunks
swollen and absorbing within the lip of the world, fungi close
to bursting, holding their own near the modernity of water, the
scent of the new-born world; yet, within the vastness of the
fecund earth, the sense of time's ruptured arrow, blindness and
closure, barrier and burrowing of sight, fall into culture's
graces of cite, citation, unsited;

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