among the torn silks of phrase

listen: transatlanticism, death cab for cutie
look: we go into the blue

"i've been pulling at the pocket-watch strings all week," i say into the telephone, while testing the resinous skins of apples in the grocery store of afternoon. they are clear & crisp and filmy with wax and soft-planed as everything has been lately. bright. effortless. effortless as breathing, or light, or the sound of motion. the oily tap of your pastel against blank paper, the gathering of your mouth against the teacup edge of evening.

the city disappeared into mist & ocean was seeping over the hollow edges of the ferry. the air so heavy and warm that we moved slower than eyes could follow: a morning invisible and silver as swords turned sideways. we were neither of us ourselves, and the uncertainty of recognition kept us company all the way across the harbour. at least, i think it was you. when i saw you begin to wind the film into your old kodak i turned away, preserving the anonymity of just another figure at the railing.

they have always been there increasing their numbers
at the foot of dim rills, all around and under
the ghostly edges where moonmaps surrender
and hold out white flags to the night.
"the armies of the moon," gwendolyn mcewen

there are two rooms at the observatory: the first is full of buzzing computers, lit up like kaleidoscopes with all the patterns of the sky & the labelling of the heavens. there is a wide row of windows, looking over the perpendicular city, all streetlamps and telephone polls. the sky above is dark distant trees and clouds. through the door is the telescope room, galvanized metal curves ripped open into the glittering sky. the craters of the moon are granular as rice or the distant, not-so-distant stars that, with so much effort, you are learning how to name.