Numbering Sands, VI

We can write the scent of the hour, make old and customary distances into a sublime music, which we may or may not ever have a chance to play or to hear aloud in the shuffle of a too-busy world : we can invent, we can remake, we can inflect and complicate, and travel under and understand, we can breed faultlines or cope with them, soak up seas or venture across their skeptical surfaces, seek the tired idea of elsewhere, or make another life within the same footprint, regardless of place or motivation, or the need to say quite simply anything : mourn the amber freeze of an ear when we heard the great deep dirges sung with the soulful grey-brown leafy air of wisdom, when we knew that sadness was one component of a luminous fabric and that it didn't erase or endanger the whole, mourn the subtle upward shift in forward roads and voyages, the sliding rank of difficulty as it breaks through into a shallow persistent flood...