assemblage

New breaking morning, my feet walk on eggs shells, broken plates and dishes, bits of crystals that fell from the sky with the rain, and below that snow. These all crunch softly, shards cracking, breaking as I walk on the white that covers the world. It is pure, virginal, like just-born, or new-dawned, or never touched or thought of before. And yet it is here. And broken.

The sun goes higher and I, thick black blindfolded, miss the heat of the day, hear only the whir of chariots, flaming horses' feet in the sky, the clang of metal as it strikes off the sun and the sparks fly. I only smell the singed scent of human hair, and feel the cracks in the dessert pulling apart under my bare feet. Everything, I know, rests on the crustacious cicada, rests on the steady floating pitch of the cicada, is deafened and sustained and surrounded and upheld by the proclaiming red-eyed cicada.

Then the paling. The paling, and substance turns to vapour and my relief is like a wind going out of me as my eyes behold the fluidity of the elements. It all lifts away, the plastic limbs of toys, the broken clockworks with unsprung mechanisms, the specimins of animals, claws and beaks inside glass cases all lift away and show like dim bird wings against the dusking sky. A wind moves in the eucalyptus. The eucalyptus streatches, grows a little, then settles down again and waits, waits for the sky to thin and open the space and the stars.