Mudlark No. 48 (2012)

Event Horizon

On what does it depend, where we move,
where we appear, where the weeping cherry’s
pendulous branches heavy with white bloom  
fill the space left by the cut-down hemlock:   
gone that shade, gone the green-needled  privacy 
between window and road, in-here and out-there, 
the self’s boundary and clothed singularity, one of 
us moving away or towards, the in-falling life surviving 
a circuit of years and years, until it can no longer escape 
its own gravity, time a thought without velocity 
though ceaseless in a flat infinity. Not this curve that 
takes you away into perfectly random dark that will 
not surrender its unseeable heart,  the edge on which 
you turn back to wave before you disappear.          

John Allman | Premonitions
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)