Lawrence Upton

Old island a hill now, high land out of lower land; below, a cultivated plain; above, a lake,
islands and bits of flotsam and a bedstead near the shore.

A big red tree and a mass of birdshit. Oyster beds and a cliff barricaded by warning signs.
The signs glissen and scintillate -- afternoon rain. A car goes past.

These various compositions of light and sound. All this noise the sunset coming,
boisterous, in my head. Reality is so big it’s hardly noticeable.

Appearance of goods from heaven, death, that sort of thing, you understand? -- the reality
-- these inexplicable things and these things that I see that you don’t, apparently, you say.
We can’t talk about them if you can’t admit to them; not until you do; and I have no words
and that does, whatever you say, limit me, the vocabulary, like not being able to make
notes of a complex subject - you start to forget what you have established or been told,
like going into the forest and the sun clouding over. You can navigate with a compass and
that’s part of the vocabulary, what we have made rather than what we have grown up with.
You think I’m rambling in my own words. You don’t see any problems, but then you don’t
see anything much. No built environment beyond the human mess, no contrivance that we
have not made. It is extraordinary. Never mind.

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