a dramatic black and white photo taken at the beach of black volcanic boulders sitting at the shoreline, at low tide, with nearly still water and dead coral reef in the distance.

my monsoon, in decline, lets run again. the cocks
roll thunder. high on this island, cloud-blind, some soft
grey ankle socks deliver me. wherever

cast ironies become a blanket feast. the cold,
like snow, but i belong to it. and where i sit,
i am not alone. i am the least

interesting thing about me. morning is a word
upon blue lips. change comes from a beast behind
the oracle. meaning takes a midnight train

to hear the tightropes hum. like details falling down
a face, like curtains swaying in a drift. if
i fail, then i forget. and being neither of these.


//

Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)

but there must be (dei)

not even one (medemian)
harm (blaben)
from itself

and help (opheleia)
born (gignesthai)
by both (amphoin)

// 234ξ

δεῖ δὲ

βλάβην μὲν ἀπ᾽ αὐτοῦ μηδεμίαν

ὠφελίαν δὲ ἀμφοῖν γίγνεσθαι

//

previously

no post again tomorrow
for routine medical & traffic.
enjoy infrastructure. x

🌘