Proof
By Brook Emery
Published 1 January 2021
Dear Z, it's light that makes the river flow, or
seem to flow. Efflorescence skipping from crest to
crest as though it were a school of tiny fish
And disappearing beneath a bridge. A bolted,
welded, seconds-long eclipse and then they flicker
back again.
They're harder to count than stars. More subject
to vagaries, fancy, the weakness of belief. Are
they matter
Or do they depend on matter's movement. The hardly
more substantial lifting them and losing them in
troughs. Most of the time
I think like this. Unsure what can exist without
an imprint. My reflection stutters in the windows
of a speeding train and then I'm looking at a
field of sheep
Black-faced and lazily intent. The glimmerings are
flecks of time. I can't decide whether they are
truly in the moment or moments out of time,
essence or deviation from the path.
There's no conclusion here, no resolution myth.
Things rise up and fall away as if they never
were, rise up again. I think of them as my
credentials, proof of who I am.
I like the dancing light, the scattered cloud, the
river that lies potentially between its banks, the speeding train. I reach for them. They reach for
me.