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Gaze
Written by P. L. Humbert |
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Look at them: they are standing there.
Thick as night, their woody fibres erect, split open, wounded by gashes gradually healing.
Some of them enter through long, slow windows filled with low sky, tragic, their only hope a tiny reflection, in a corner, a fold of meaning that discards its outer shell. They go in twos, in threes, keeping time, while maintaining the vertical, and duration. Prepared to take a step in order to bridge a gap. But also prepared never to step in, if necessary… And then there are the others, those who have decided to move. To experience what it feels like for their body and fibres to wriggle about: lying on the grass, they flutter slowly, like musical paramecia. Or they set off, like wood, for a camp from which only bones ever return. They are accompanied by the crude whistling of celestial crows. And by the brown air’s long tremor. They are there, encamped. At once dazed, watchful, deeply rooted. Waiting for just one thing: for you to forget about them for an instant, and look to yourself at last… |
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