#lisarobertson

They are blazons. Cool threads of anger bind me to them. We cease to be human, We're neutral, desituated clouds. There is nothing left to fear. This realization is a vocation.

Between the puzzlement and its summary abandonment, between the folds of waking consciousness and their subsequent limitation, is a possible city. Sometimes prolonged reading holds it ajar. Another's style of consciousness inflects one's own; an odd syntactic manner, a texture of embellishment, pause. A new mode of rest.

Do you sometimes at earliest waking observe yourself struggling towards a pronoun? Do you fleetingly, as if from a great distance, strain to recall who it is that breathes and turns?

Lisa Robertson Earns NAR’s Military Relocation Professional Certification

All that is beautiful, from which I choose even artifice, which I hold above nature won’t salve these stuttered accoutrements