Marcella Durand, p.2


It’s a circle addressed, hung in midst
or hung in mist, as we speak about you,
you take more solid shape. A shadow of
a circle, umber-colored, with slight glow
at one side. The shadow cone moves across
your face and in color you turn grayscale,
or glowing, amber. It’s low light
on another planet, across from us,
or seen through the branches of a giant
fractal tree. It’s meant to indicate oceans or
a mountainous landscape that are not here. Terra,
flickering, or curved across a wall, faint, bent
as lightwaves move aside to allow it passage,
a sphere-shaped path from fragment to sun,
as our shadows fall not upon light source but
bend away from branches: the sky is always
the brightest element. You take more solid shape
as we are silent. Silence like what mountains
are made of: large empty circles piled one
upon another, conglomerate clusters empty
in middle or pyramids sans bases. Rendering
subsumes down, Terra, blue against shadows
of gray/umber/black. Bruised and spreading
beige-yellow, sand, red soil, white, aluminum.
Iron, nickel. Metal accompanies you upon
waking, or finely ground plastic dust. We
speak or don’t speak: coronas play against
the curve of the sun. Like many years away,
shapely, your face, not this one we’re watching,
Terra, or not watching, without circles, like
bright sky at night or aluminum reflecting fire,
like darker blue edges of continents. Your
face or spoken to each other, smaller
shadows as you speak, render.