Accidental Clyfford Still, Yakushima Island.
The moon is a grey wisp of lint in the navel of this
dark belly of a sky.
And the stars are smothered in their sleep under a
quilt of murky clouds.
There’s the polite applause of waves committing suicide from the
arena of a cove.
And a criminal breeze makes its getaway under the
cacophony of quiet.
Vines strangling wires.
The clench of petals.
Molecules rubbing up against each other.
And the rustle of worms
Yakushima Island. Winter, 2011