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New birds flit in their feather helmets.
Take their powdery beaks to the lilies,
petals pursed, purpled and molded before
they opened. Bare structure of branches
an audible, vegetal overtaking and
diegetic sounds we recognize as
punching heartbeat, crackling tremolo of the old
time record player, giving the worlds
continuity they’d otherwise lack.
With time-lapse equipment,
can we detail the day it started?
Had we access to everything: the stinking
pine barrens, the swelling sound
of cicadas, the white blossoms floating
down on currents of air like thick
snowflakes in spring, the strange orange
moon suspended up there, divided
in half, half shielded by darkness.
Out of the astral discharge we call
ardor, it gets warmer and
with our book of record
highs, we track the weather
as it happens. With our tattered
taxonomic manual, we learn how
to dig a hole without getting
dirty. I started out because
everything was happening at once.
Everything happens at once.
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Robin D. G. Kelley on the midterm elections.
What we have achieved this year—and our plans for 2023.