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%title Miscellany
!{In *Civilized Beasts 2016 Edition*}!{In *Eigengrau*}
'''
The dogs assure me:
There are volumes of meaning —
Life and death —
And time;
Past, present, future —
In the scent of a rotting fish left after the flood,
Or a trace of scat,
Or the coyote, long passed,
But not everyone reads poetry.
Im not so lucky, all told:
The rich scent of meaning —
Heady, intoxicating —
Rises only from words
And the way you rest your hands on the table.
'''
-----
!{In *Eigengrau*}
'''
The eighteenth whisker on the left is brown.
I know this after countless nights awake
beside you, watching every quiet breath.
You puff your whiskers out on every yawn.
On longer work-filled days, your whiskers wilt,
exhaustion softening your features, sleep
exerting subtle gravities to lead
you to oneiric seas and dreamlike sands.
I know this after countless nights awake.
I know, I know, it's strange to watch you sleep,
but when I can't, to know that someone can...
at least it somehow lets me rest in turn.
When I lay beside your sleeping form
I know there's rest to still be had for me.
'''
---
## Liminality
!{In *Eigengrau*}
'''
A year starts not on January first.
The days may hunder but the seasons speak
of time's long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst
for "start" and "end" neglects the limen sleek.
So, why do some unsubtle sciences
forget about the in-betweens? Those pure
uncolored dreams made mere contrivances;
"between the years" now simply: "year, then year".
These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil
the beauty of our silent spaces, take
from us the liminality, embroil
our lives in cold and tired minutiae.
Come sit with me, come stay with me inside
this place between where strange new loves abide
'''
"So, what does it mean?"
She shrugged and sipped her tea. They sat together in silence for a while.
"There's something about the liminal that terrifies me."
<p style="text-align: right">"Me too," she said...</p>