After Untitled by David Caddy
The wind picks up
more than just the sound of
the subtle, approaching onslaught—
count the silicate ablaze.
Every event is this event.
Every night this night
in arms, her desire, that stars exit their solar gestures,
your bare feet on timber boards, the sleeping
child, the phone rings.
This is history but not history,
you have been here,
are here again.
in any direction and
get your bearings in the storm of them.
Their parallel, perfect speed, their perfect disappearance.
Perhaps the hand opens out.
Wouldn’t that be something.