Pasture and flock.
Staring up into the sky my feet
anchor me to the ground so hard I’m almost drowning, drowning in air, my hair falling upwards around my shoulders, I think I’ll hug my coat closer. I’m standing on hundreds of blades of grass, and still there are so many more untrodden on. Last night, in bed, you said, “you are the sheet of linen and I am the threads,” and I wanted to know what you meant but you wouldn’t wake up to tell me and in the morning you didn’t remember, and I had forgotten till now when I think, who is the blades of grass, who is the pasture? It is awfully cold, and my coat smells of something unusual. It almost seems as if it is the stars smelling, as if there were an electrical fault in the sky, and though it is almost too dark to see I can see the sheep moving closer, and the stars falling. I feel like we are all going to plunge into the sky at once, the sheep and I, and I am the sheep and I am the flock, and you are the pasture I fall from, the stars and the sky.
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