The result of a text message conversation between Zachary Stansell and me.
Y: One stingray swam below the forgotten tressle
because prehaps
everyone else drove over
newer roads
M: The exoskeletal sky has
been draining itself all
day, moving like a robust
stingray over the valley
towns
Y: Bluegreen air blows
beneath the broken
bridge, my bones in
repose basking in, slowly
bleaching in the stinging
rays
M: The gray mountains
reach out to me,
haphazard rays stung by
snowdrifts, fingers of
pitch and dirt expanding
upon the horizon
Y: Failed dreams dreamt in
the time of steam now
abide as vacuous
crustations, waystations
for migrations of ever
searching seabirds.
M: Ideas, drifting legions
of habit, secret
negotiations between
silenced seasons, sprout
thru the matted topsoil
of the inverted
landscape around me
Y: Thing is, these lines bend
under the wait of time,
but the eye cannot spy
seasonal shifts, if the
shifting does not slip
M: Words are time and time
is an aging system
simulating four seasons,
an expectant module
that tells us how to say
what we see
Y: I leave the bridge
somewhat higher than I
could have climbed, I will
find the ground another
time.
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