They were so near
the surface of the Earth
before;
gravity unraveled
and the whole tapestry of stars,
galaxies, nebulae
conspired with the spinning
wheel of time.
A delicate thread
dyed red or lapis blue
or gilded
made of what is said,
of what is done
(and undone) until...
Spun,
out, into
a thin, shimmering line,
this life chases
after
its own favorite needle,
now stitched
into constellations
that the restless cosmic wind
leaves ragged
like the flag
and its torn stars.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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