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yesterday: wind picked up when the storm blew
north from the tropics. humid air, musty quality.
summer left in a dark room too long until green
lightning throws rot out born from churned
ignition. burst of heat leaves us cold. last night:
everyone wearing sweaters with their shorts
again. return to production and nighttime
drinking at home. morning: good playground
screaming and loneliness of living a block too far
from social grace. sesame bagels leave their seeds
drifted to kitchen floor to sow. afternoon: clouds
pushy with occurrences of blue. blank currency
of want moves past this sinking island, closer to
the ocean. wants to be blown to a vacation from
humanity, hustled off course from observation.
evening: spent picking ears raw so gale forces can
whistle through grey matter. night again: hands
grate against the new arrival of cold.
dreams make me think of remembering
all wrong for neuroscience.
REM is a wind that scatters then resubstantiates
meaning,
then asks: did all those traumas really happen
when I was younger
or asleep? what’s imagined
drifts to physicality upon waking.
traces. sleep’s soundtrack carries over to
consciousness
in the pockets of a breath
we create yesterday anew.
cold of arrival against new hands. night
again. matter greys through whistling
force. a gale so raw it picks at ears.
evening observes from the course of
hustled humanity. from vacation blown
to want oceans closer to sink islands.
past movement of clouds is the
afternoon sown to floors. kitchen
drifted seeds. their bagels’ haloed grace
on social blocks of morning. home
drinks at nighttime and production
returns, shorter again. sweaters wearing
everyone’s nights to one last ignition.
churned, born rot throws lightning
greened until long rooms fight the
darkness of left summer. quality:
musty, air humid, tropic blue.
picked
up wind,
yesterday.
wind could be any gas
flowing on a large
scale
it makes me believe in spirits
the ancient
breeze of intuition
always passing through us
weighted on a large scale
wind is the distribution of matter
a longing for balance
……………………time
Trynne Delaney is a writer currently based in Tio’tia:ke. Their writing consists mostly of musings about how we got here, where we are, who “we” encompasses, how to care in a violent world, and how to exist in spaces that are hostile to multiplicity. @u_got_trynned on Instagram and Twitter.