Article: 261744 of talk.bizarre
From: (Rebecca Drury)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: doubting the sky
Date: 4 Dec 1995 19:01:51 GMT
Organization: USGS, Atlantic Marine Geology, Woods Hole, MA.
Lines: 34
Message-ID: <49vgiv$>
Status: O

goodnight and sweet dreams.

Tomorrow is that day multiplied. 

It is the reflections of that day in glass and mirrored smoke.  We are
here among the fires and the fires are here among us.  The ends of the
earth are moving in and we are in the center, not hold but fly.  The
waltz is falling in around wandering eyes.  It's falling onto wandering 
feet of jews...of you.

This sky is the color of leaves at the wrong time of year.  It is always
the wrong time of year, here.

The sky is cut with diamond cutters in delicate strips of God.
God's eyes are among the living.  What if...? He is that man
and that man has the heart on the chain, the chain on the moon,
and the moon inside your ring.  Wrapped around your neck like
an asp, thinking of the strike.  Pickets line the fence and our 
eyes meat across the slaughtered minutes of my life.  I am falling 
into minutia, the dementia of another Montana summer never lived 
and an Oregon Spring, drowning in roses.  

We rise and find sky blue silk spread across the floor and dark
brown muslin on the ceiling and ciel et terre et exchange.  Ready
to wear out along seams in our seamlessness.  The sand is not shifting, 
you are.  The millon years of water that shaped that sand have 
winnowed out the widowed.  We will meet here where the edges of us blur
into trees of silhouettes.  The pain is upside-down and is that the same
as pleasure?  A kiss on my windpipe cuts the veil and and finally 
I see that which waits for sky, for high-handed heartiness, for the skis 
of fashion on the pregnancy of doubt.  This moment doubts nothing
and thus begins.