An octet plays in the snow losing its distinction
which you have come to film unused to the climate & faces turning
like leaves in a blue autumn. You think maybe the blizzard
is merely a case of tinnitus & a speculative wind
floats through your instruments. Maybe a coat flies open.
Maybe a violin plays disaffected by the cold. Red ribbons,
blood boats, anomalous feasts of artifice. You let the weather
report itself to the festering eyes of a wall that is now
a dead vertical left. You film less out of sorrow
than out of deference for the nonce
of this here music. It is a balm. It is a wildering force
upon this here chaos. What a cold day. What plum depths.
Yesterday it was not different. It was less cold—de facto
blazing. You were visited by a kind of pure circumforanean
green that hurt your eyes. Sometimes experience is
phenomenal in its segues—do you remember
you were peeling a turnip. That was some vegetable–
colored sky toward which stupefied you grew.
You became its bespoke leek. Time would go from there
ever onward. You were there
thinking something that the climate kept controlling
toward its own excess. This is what it is like to surrender
you thought listening to the assignations of things.
Meanwhile you could not eat the turnip.
Meanwhile you sat on a tuffet.
Meanwhile you earned a degree
handed to you from the relief
helicopter in the turnip sky.