Limestone Ritual

For the patient angler, whom one hesitates to call a coarse fisherman, there comes, in this country, a moment of embarrassment when the catch has been weighed and exhibited.

A shrub of the hills and chalk downs; its pea-shaped berries, which ripen in their third autumn and then turn purplish black with a white bloom.

Now the two metal frames rest crumpled. The black diagram of their shadows overlaps my past with the dark fuzz of this present, as the dusk takes over the earth like an owl.

I knew that too much recollection would reveal the worst in something. Like how sleep reveals the bug of psychosis, and you roll out of bed on the wrong side, glued in muck to begin with.

On towards the break of the conflict
On towards a must of reversed edges
On towards a reflection back on what you’re able to see

perhaps we have never seen clearly
until now, perhaps it is only in breaking

An aroma that travels through the physical places we occupy.

did someone hear
about the growing dimness in here?