I Know A Place

Bound over the belly of a slowly breathing beast, a warm smile which refuses to be seen, but is felt, the subtlest shades of monochromatic night unpunctured by orange stars or hazy searchlights, only trembling white pinpricks placed with delicate precision on the night's great backdrop, black and blue, the snap of grass and dry twigs (or a thrown rock), shaken branches and shaking bones, rattling for the uninvited ones. A bit of fox-red-orange burst into the grass, uncaught by the camera's flash, unseen by the other eyes, but I knew the fella must belong to those ghostly loiterers, leaned against the ashen trunks of secret keeping trees. The dirt ahead displaying elongated limbs, contorted torsoes and tiny heads, suggesting spotlights behind and, yes, in the corner of my eyes comes a glow which must be all light, but a turned head recieves no blindness, only solemn hill, quiet fields and stoic ocean; where there could be heaven - all trumpeting angels and holy choir - there is only a stillness, a quiet grace of infinite acceptance which recieves God's envy, for its mystery lays beyond mystery, love beyond begotten, a nothing capable of everything only humming, only tearing in half a few leaves of grass, only popping knuckles, chewing the interior cheek or biting a lip, scratching scalp, pulling chin, yawning now and then, only - breathing. Such humble potential, content to contain and be contained, to have all strings tied and be idle.

- Los Angeles