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by Alexander Etheridge We ride slowly down our shadowy path, in our horse-driven funeral carriage. We forget the same faces in the same rainfall, we forget being forever vanished. Our memories lose themselves. The way home is stony and barren—we’re following a hush through blue desert cloudfall. We’re abandoned by everything abandoned—and gone is gone. What returns after so long, what comes back to the heart is an ancient way of dreaming, like seeing with eyes of an underworld, an otherlife. We ride over the creaky bridge, invited by a pure grief, a perfect word. Go with me to the far side of lightlessness, where the first thought was born—thinking itself into oblivion, held in our hands, almost there—eternal and never, riding with us through fresh rain, here under the halfmoon. Copyright 2022. All rights reserved.
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